Bully Lord

Part-10

A wave of relief washed over James. A quick glance around his room revealed no sign of Lily.  His heart pounded with a mix of apprehension and excitement. This was his chance.  He tiptoed out of his room, his mind racing. Was Lily in the dining room, munching on leftover cookies? Or perhaps sprawled on the couch in the drawing room, lost in a movie?

He didn't waste time pondering her whereabouts. He had a mission to complete, and the thought of reliving the helplessness of the alleyway spurred him on.  He crept down the hallway, his senses on high alert. Reaching Lily's room, he paused for a beat, taking a deep breath. This was it.  He peeked inside.

The room was a mess, a testament to his sister's usual disarray. Clothes were strewn across the floor, books lay open on her desk, and posters adorned the walls.  A backpack sat slumped on a chair, its contents spilling out like a treasure trove. And there, nestled amidst notebooks and crumpled papers, was the prize he sought – the bright yellow stress ball.

James' conscience twinged. Stealing from his sister, even something as seemingly insignificant as a stress ball, went against his nature.  But the memory of Lemon's cruel laughter and the sting of blows flashed in his mind, erasing his hesitation.  He reached for the stress ball, his fingers brushing against a worn teddy bear – a reminder of their childhood.  A pang of guilt stabbed at him, but he steeled himself. He'd make it up to Lily later. Now, he had a mission to complete.

With a silent apology to his absent sister, James snagged the stress ball and beat a hasty retreat. He navigated the hallway, his heart hammering in his chest. Reaching the safety of his own room, he bolted the door shut, collapsing onto his bed.  Relief flooded him, mixed with a surge of nervous anticipation. He held the stress ball in his hand, a simple object that now seemed to hold the power to change his future.

James gripped the stress ball, its bright yellow surface cool against his clammy palm. With a deep breath, he began to squeeze. The first few compressions were easy, a satisfying resistance pushing back against his fingers. But as the numbers on the counter ticked by – 100, 200, 300 – his hand began to protest. Muscles in his forearm burned, and his fingers felt cramped.

He hadn't considered this. Building strength wouldn't be effortless. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, and a tremor ran through his hand with each squeeze.  Stubbornly, he continued, picturing Lemon's sneering face with each squeeze. It was a mental image that fueled his determination. Every time his grip faltered, he visualized the alleyway, the rain stinging his face, the sickening thud of his body hitting the ground. Shame and anger pulsed through him, a potent cocktail that pushed him to squeeze harder.

By 546, his hand was a throbbing mess. Ignoring the burning ache that radiated from his fingertips to his elbow, he forced himself to one more squeeze before finally relenting  with a groan. He let the stress ball fall limply into his lap, his hand trembling uncontrollably. Yet, a grudging sense of satisfaction bloomed in his chest. He had pushed himself, and the counter reflected his progress. Even with the break, he was halfway there.

He slumped back, panting, and stared at the holographic screen hovering in front of him. It displayed his progress: "Mission 2: Strengthen Your Grip with Stress Ball (546/1000 Squeezes). Reward: Skill - Thunderclap (Slap)." Relief washed over him. Apparently, taking breaks was allowed.