Edited.
---
Eventually, the teen seemed to grow bored of staring at the men shaking in their boots, for he looked away and returned to punching and kicking the sandbag again.
Only, this time he seemed to hit it harder. Each punch landed harder and louder than the last. Loud enough those without sight would mistake them for gunshots. After nearly fifteen minutes of continuing the exercise, the teen stopped.
Without a word, he wiped his face with a towel, tossed it into his bag and strode out of the dojo, making the men on his way part hastily, afraid to even bump against him.
The thick silence following the obsidian-eyed teenager lasted long enough for the men to ensure he was truly gone before the dojo burst into a hubbub of whispers.
"You fucker! Nearly got us killed—"
"What did I do?"
"Never ask about the boss' son, especially when either of them are around!"
"Why— what's s' scary 'bout that twerp? Just some scars he musta got in squabbles!"
