[ It's hard to keep in, that surge through him. Through his throat and into his lungs, beating his blood in an ugly way. He's picking into his trouser with a single nail, rubbing it into his skin, and his toes press inside his shoes, though that does less for the energy in him. ]

So what - [ He looks away from the ball, going from it to the dirt floor. ] It doesn't matter? We can't do anything, so why care? What's the point of being mad?

[ The emotion seeps in, little by little, while still his voice keeps low. ] Do you even know why?

Or doesn't that matter. [ And there, the bitterness, hardening his words. ]