[He takes off his sword, and then his trenchcoat and shoes, setting them together in a pile near the bench. He trots over to the punching bag, pausing for a moment to collect himself.]
[And then he strikes, every inch of his muscle not dedicated to keeping him standing going into the punches. He can feel a familiar calm settle over his body, keeping it focused on his purpose of punching the hell out of the bag, even as his mind races.]
[You'll never be useful for anything but cannon fodder, so I might as well train you.
Monster! Demon!
I should have flushed you down the toilet the day you were born.]
[Years and years of training and fighting experience and abuse from him and from others, mostly verbal but sometimes physical.]
[He's to this train of thought though, and doesn't let it interrupt him as he moves around the bag to punch it back as it swings, launching a kick right afterwards. The bag creaks as he channels his thoughts into action into purpose, until he starts noticing that his breath is shortened, which means it's time to stop.]
[He steps back and checks his hands. No split knuckles today. That's a good sign.]