Jordan slid the glass door open and stepped into the backyard.
The night was cool and quiet, the moonlight casting a pale shimmer across the small lawn.
The air smelled faintly of trimmed grass and damp soil, and somewhere nearby, a cicada buzzed lazily.
He stretched his arms overhead and let out a long sigh, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Man… it feels good to kick some ass every now and then," he muttered to himself, cracking his neck.
The memory of the hotdog stall still pulsed in his veins. The way he ducked that first punch, the sound of his fist connecting with someone's jaw, the chaotic surprise on their faces, it had all felt… alive.
Not as good as the time when he was training in Simaland.
Much better than most of the days he spent lately stuck behind a desk or acting civil for Ethan's sake.
With a shrug, Jordan pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it over the back of a patio chair. The fabric landed with a soft thump.
