In my quest to find Carter, I began to embark on fight clubs.
It wasn't hard to track down the person who called himself the butcher of the clouds, at least, his old club, but something prevented me from finding him.
Carter had been missing for a couple of weeks now, I knew he wasn't dead, but it seemed he didn't want to be found.
I looked at his old club and sat down at one of the tables near the battle arena. Before I knew it I found myself drinking several glasses of alcohol watching the club's fights with fake excitement.
It didn't make sense, although the fights seemed to be sincere, there was some trace of farce, as if everything was fixed.
I couldn't help remembering the fights I lived through in my prison, that was not fake, if we were not able to be sincere in our blows, the whips would punish us for our weakness.
