<div align="center"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: franklin gothic demi;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;">John Aaron: Bedroom</span></span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: times new roman;">Zzz…</span></div><br/>The teenager was passed out across his mattress. He hadn’t even changed out of his clothes or got himself situated beneath the covers. The only signs of his rage were a crushed dumpster in an alley in the city and the immense axe embedded into the bedpost of his bed. Having been running on a few hours of sleep, John was beyond exhausted.<br/><br/>His chest rose and fell to his gentle breaths, his necklace gleaming in the firelight of the eternal hearth that burned in his room. It was probably was a fire hazard, but the floors, walls, and ceiling were mostly stone, and John didn’t give much of a damn. He was the God of War! For someone who had appeared so hard and menacing moments ago, he bore an entirely different expression when he slept. There wasn’t a frown or crease of anger or irritation on his face. His features were smooth and light with seemingly innocence, lips parted as a stream of drool threatened to escape the corner of his mouth, and would by the end of the night. He was sleeping harder than a rock.