Creed hobbled out of the hotel like a war veteran who had just barely survived a battlefield.
His legs felt like jelly, his lower back ached, and there was a distant look in his eyes like he had just seen the abyss stare back at him.
The morning sun was bright, the streets of the bastion were bustling, and people were going about their lives, completely unaware of the pure 'suffering' he had endured the night before.
He grimaced as he adjusted his steps, wincing at the soreness in his thighs.
He had spent minutes—no, an eternity—at the hotel reception, desperately trying to explain how the massive destruction of his room was not his fault.
He had even come up with a somewhat reasonable, completely ridiculous excuse.
"You see, it was actually a high-speed pigeon," Creed had said with an absolutely straight face, rubbing the back of his head.
