The thunderous crack of the axe splitting wood shattered the forest's tranquility. A nearby flock of birds erupted into flight, their wings creating a rushing whisper that faded into the distance. The sharp slice echoed off ancient trunks, sending ripples through the air thick with the scent of pine and fresh-cut timber.

Alex paused, chest heaving, and leaned on the axe handle. Sweat trickled down his temples, leaving salty trails on his sun-bronzed skin. The late afternoon sun filtered through the canopy, casting dappled shadows across his muscled arms. He lifted his gaze to the horizon, where the sky blushed with the first hints of sunset.

The beauty of the scene only deepened the ache in Alex's chest. Six months. Half a year since his father had vanished without a trace. His eyes scanned the tree line, searching for a familiar silhouette among the pines. Hope, stubborn and unyielding, refused to be silenced by logic or time.

As he positioned another log, memories flooded back: his father's hands guiding his own as he learned to swing an axe; the warmth of those same hands ruffling his hair after a job well done. Alex's mind drifted to the fantastical tales his father had spun on countless evenings by the fireplace. Stories of dying gods, their divine essence scattering across the cosmos like stardust, imbuing select mortals with extraordinary powers.

"That's where your strength comes from, son," his father would say, eyes twinkling with pride and something deeper—a secret Alex couldn't quite grasp. Now, as the axe rose high above his head, Alex found himself wishing he'd paid closer attention. Had there been truth hidden in those stories? Clues to his father's disappearance?

The axe fell, and the log split with a satisfying crack. Each swing unleashed a torrent of emotions—grief that threatened to drown him, anger that burned hot in his veins, confusion that clouded his thoughts like morning mist. The physical exertion provided a temporary outlet, but it wasn't enough to quell the storm brewing in his heart.

An hour passed, marked by the steady rhythm of chopping and the gradual shift of shadows. Finally exhausted, Alex gathered the split logs. As he began the trek back to his cabin, each step felt heavier than the last. The physical burden was nothing compared to the weight of unanswered questions that threatened to crush him.

Without warning, his fist shot out. The impact against a nearby tree trunk sent shockwaves up his arm. Bark exploded outward, showering the ground with woody shrapnel. Again and again, his fists connected with the unyielding trunk. The rough bark scraped his knuckles raw, blood mixing with sap in a primitive fusion of man and nature.

As the red haze of rage finally cleared, shame washed over Alex. He slumped against the battered tree, forehead pressed against its cool bark, fighting to regain control of his breathing. His father's voice echoed in his memory, patient and calm: "Control your breath, control your mind. Your strength is a gift, Alex, but it comes with responsibility."

Alex closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation of air filling his lungs, willing his heartbeat to slow. The forest around him gradually came back into focus—the whisper of wind through leaves, the distant call of a loon across the lake, the earthy scent of moss and decaying leaves beneath his feet.

A twig snapped nearby, followed by the soft rustle of footsteps on the forest floor. Alex tensed, his senses on high alert. The familiar scent of lavender wafted through the air, and he felt his shoulders relax. Only one person would be out here, looking for him.

"So, who started it? You or the tree?"

The melodic voice cut through Alex's self-recrimination like a shaft of sunlight through storm clouds. He turned to find Anne standing a few paces away, her fiery red hair catching the late afternoon sun. Her expression was a complex mixture of concern, amusement, and understanding that spoke of shared pain and unwavering support.

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Alex attempted a weak smile, wincing as he flexed his battered hand. "Would you believe me if I said the tree threw the first punch?"

Anne closed the distance between them, her warm hands cupping his face. The scent of lavender enveloped him, soothing his frayed nerves. "I'd be more inclined to believe the tree if it weren't, you know, kindling now," she replied, her tone gently teasing. Then, with infinite tenderness, she pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

The contact sent a wave of calm through Alex's body. When they parted, Anne's hazel eyes searched his, filled with understanding. "Your dad?" she asked softly.

Alex nodded, unable to find words. Since his father's disappearance, Anne had been his anchor, keeping him tethered when grief threatened to sweep him away.

"I know it's frustrating," she soothed, her hands moving to massage his tense shoulders. "But destroying the local flora isn't going to bring him back. Though I must say, your redecorating skills are quite impressive."

Her words, walking the fine line between humor and empathy, helped settle the unease still churning within him. Alex marveled at how she always knew exactly what to say, providing the perfect balance of support and gentle reality checks.

He laced his fingers through hers, bringing her hand to his lips. "What would I do without you?" he murmured against her skin.

Anne's laugh was light, a balm to his battered spirit. "Probably deforest all of Alaska," she quipped, squeezing his hand. "Come on, let's get you patched up before you decide to take on a whole grove."

As they walked toward the cabin, the warmth of Anne's hand in his own served as a tether to reality. Yet even as he found comfort in her presence, a part of Alex's mind couldn't help but wander back to his father's stories. Had there been more truth to them than he'd ever suspected? And if so, what did that mean for his father's disappearance—and for Alex's own destiny?

---

The appetizing scent of sautéed potatoes drifted into Alex's nose as he felt his abs ignite with a burning intensity, finishing another crunch-filled sit-up. In the kitchen, Anne was diligently preparing a meal while Alex attempted to work through his chaotic thoughts and simmering anger with an intense workout to help alleviate his rage. With every motion, whether it was a sit-up targeting his core or a push-up that seared his muscles, his mind raced with a flood of questions, the anger rising like molten lava in response, and the release of that energy surged through the fiery blaze in his muscles. As he continued to feel that anger swell and pulse within him, it transported him back to a time in his youth when he lost control of that volcanic rage, resulting in significant changes.

He recalled being around the age of ten or eleven, although the precise details remained a hazy blur in his memory; his father speculated that the gaps stemmed from the adrenaline and blinding fury that engulfed him. One day, while walking home from school in Texas, he encountered two local bullies. These bullies had a talent for disrupting lives for days and Alex always tried to steer clear of them. His father had cautioned him at least a hundred times, and he was resolute in following his father's guidance. However, on this day, he was unable to escape them, almost as if they were tracking him down.

The bullies began taunting him mercilessly, ridiculing the fact that Alex's mother had deserted them, belittling his father, and escalating from verbal insults to physical confrontations. Alex attempted to ignore them, tried to walk away, but each time he took a step, one of them would block his path and continue to provoke him.

Alex finished another sit-up, the vivid recollection crashing over him like a wave, and he found himself once more engulfed in that heated moment.

---

"Enlighten us, weirdo," began Damon, his voice thick with disdain. Towering over Alex, Damon's muscular build cast an imposing shadow. Alex averted his eyes and attempted to sidestep the confrontation, but Damon's associate, Jason, impeded his escape. Despite being less imposing than Damon, Jason's well-defined arms bulged, stretching the fabric of his shirt taut. A shiver ran down Alex's spine, causing the hairs on his arms to bristle. He inhaled sharply, returning Jason's mocking grin with a look of fierce resistance.

"Didn't you catch that, weirdo?" Jason mocked, emphasizing Damon's query.

Alex stood motionless, hands balled into tight fists. "What do you want?" he snarled through clenched jaws.

"Your dear mother," Damon goaded, his tone steeped in malice. "Perhaps she couldn't bring herself to care for you?" Laughter burst from Jason's throat as he tossed his head back, joining in the cruel mirth. "Or could it be your father was just too feeble to please her?"

Jason clutched his midsection, convulsing with mocking laughter despite the queasiness in his gut.

Alex struggled to maintain his footing, resolute in his refusal to crumple before them. As clarity returned, a fury kindled in his hands. They clenched into fists, the skin stretched taut over his knuckles.

"Oh, it looks like the weirdo's up for a scuffle," Damon mocked, sharing a glance of amusement with Alex.

"This should be good," Jason guffawed. "Do you actually believe you can take us on?"

A smirk played on Damon's lips. "Come on, weirdo. Either throw a punch or answer me. You've got to pick one."

Locking eyes with their derisive gazes, an insistent voice screamed within Alex's mind. Annihilate them, it urged. He drew in a deep breath and uttered in a low, strained voice, "Get out of my way."

"We might," Damon shot back. "But first, spill it - is your mum promiscuous or is your dad just a useless pile of garbage?" The vile words detonated Alex's fury. His sight darkened as he drew back and struck with every ounce of his strength.