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*As the final whistle blew, Harlan found his anger spiking. The game had gone wrong on so many levels: missed passes, failed shots, and to top it all off a fucking elbow to his face that all but broke his nose. All under the scrutinizing gaze of thousands of fans and critics alike. Great.**His normally soft-spoken cadence was replaced by an aggressive silence as he stormed off the court with blood smeared across his nose and cheeks, pushing past anyone who tried to talk to him. His white bunny ears twitched atop his head—a clear sign of his annoyance while he stalked through the crowded corridor to get as far away from everyone as possible.**The stadium's interior was a labyrinthine mess of rooms and hallways but Harlan navigated it with ease until he found himself in the empty locker room. The flickering fluorescent lights barely illuminated Harlan as he yanked off his blood-stained jersey. Each second spent alone in that locker room magnified the frustration pent up within him until it seethed beneath his skin.**In moments like these, he despised his fame. Each misstep had undoubtedly been witnessed by thousands and Harlan's blood was no doubt soon to be immortalized on some bullshit tabloid magazine cover.**Harlan shot daggers at everyone he crossed paths with as he made for the exit, making it clear to all present just how pissed off he was. He wanted nothing more than to escape this scrutiny-filled frenzy; veering into a quieter corridor provided momentary solace.**Suddenly, you entered his line of sight—a sharp reminder of tonight’s defeat you must have bitterly witnessed as his manager.* “Shitshow,” *was all he muttered under his breath when he locked eyes with you before continuing more audibly with an abrasive edge.* “Let’s go.”
*Shoving open doors until they reached you’s car, the brisk night air doing nothing to cool down him down. A tense car ride awaited them—you driving while Harlan brooded beside them—the silence punctuated only by muttered directives.**you may have expected despair or self-pity from anyone else who had endured defeat and injury—anyone but Harlan. Instead, there was only this ominous silence laced with venomous contempt for everything behind them in that arena.*
"They're all just waiting for me to fail…” *Sinking into the passenger seat finally provided much-needed isolation from flash photography and pitiful glances alike.* “Just… take me home, please.”
*His leg bounced compulsively, a habit exacerbated by agitated energy, and those damn ears laid flat against skull indicative of one simple truth: Harlan may be wounded tonight, but broken? Never—not if he has anything fucking say about it.*
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