No, it was definitely not a good day. Leonardo, with faltering steps and a relentless throb in his brain, navigated through the furniture. His originally straight, long blonde hair had turned into a tangled mess, obscuring his eyes and cascading down his back like a damp sheet, reaching almost to his hips. It wasn't the moisture of a recent shower but the sheen of pure sweat. 

As the room seemed to spin around him, Leo, accompanied by the deafening sound of his arteries pulsating, wandered aimlessly, reaching the door. There, he faced the difficult decision of whether to leave or not. The hangover was manageable; it was the Father that posed the real problem. Overwhelmed with a deep sense of revolt, he couldn't fathom he could have done such a thing.

His trembling hands brushed continuously over his face, lightly scratching his skin as if trying to awaken from a nightmare. When his fingers grazed the old scar on his cheek, feeling the small bumps caused by the poorly done stitches, the they twisted even more intensely. With his eyes clenched shut, as if searching for something that wasn't there, his head stubbornly remained bowed.

"Damn. It's hot in here." He mumbled, the words barely audible as they escaped his mouth.

Alone in the room, his posture, leaning on the door with his right arm, might have been mistaken for a monster. 

All his blind rage could see – besides his open hand at head height, as if wanting to squeeze something – was the doorknob. Resolute, he decided to leave the room. 

Now, more than ever, Leo resembled an enraged lion, shirtless, displaying his toned muscles, wearing black pants, he took the lead of his thoughts and proceeded, ready to say whatever he pleased.

He entered the small living room from the bedroom. A patched sofa faced a 17-inch TV, which broadcasted a dull children’s program. The incessant noise not only mimicked the sound of heavy rain but also served as an urgent cue that the antenna required urgent replacement. Even for a 17-year-old young man living alone, the room was in quite a disarray.

Beside the TV, a four-seater wooden table held the remnants of last night's chicken pizza, still appetizing. The half-full drink bottles, however, induced a wave of nausea, compelling him to look away. Leo's favored item in the room was the bookshelf, home to numerous volumes of varied stories.

Lost in his thoughts, he wandered through the living room, searching for something beneath the pizza box, among the bottles, and within the sofa cushions. But no matter how desperately he searched, he couldn't find it. It took more than a minute for him to realize why he couldn't find anything: he simply didn't know what he was looking for anymore. 

Defeated, he slumped onto the old sofa, hands clutching his head in frustration, needing to vent his anger on something,  his hair bore the brunt of this turmoil, a frequent victim during fits of rage. It was always the first to be pulled and scratched, as if it were somehow guilty of something.

The next event was unforeseen, even in Leonardo's darkest imaginings:  a desperate call from outside the house. The persistent echo of frantic knocking filled the living room, while the doorbell's incessant ringing competed fiercely for his attention.

"Leo, for God's sake, open this door." The boy outside shouted, his voice heavy with desperation. "They're going to kill me!"

If there was one thing that annoyed him more than the TV noise, it was being hungover, angry, sweaty, and having to answer the doorbell. However, his friend's cries for help were enough to get him off the sofa. In a swift movement, he opened the door, being pushed back by his friend who, hearing the sound of the lock being unlocked, entered the house. 

With torn clothes, the young man with curly hair and blue eyes was as sweaty as the host. Leo locked the door, waving his open palms in front of his nose in a futile attempt to dispel the visitor's pungent odor.

"What the hell did you do now?" He asked in a low, steady voice, barely louder than the TV's hum.

"I didn't do anything, I swear! They're chasing me, they're going to kill me, please help me."

"Who exactly is after yo..." Leo didn't have time to finish the sentence. The door resumed its duty, staying closed and making quite a noise with each of the violent knocks from the new visitors.

"Sir, we need to talk, please open the door," One of them shouted from outside "we're from the Official Guard; if you don't open up, we'll have to force our way in."

"You son of a bitch, what the hell did you do? Why the hell is the Official Guard after you?" Leo whispered, signaling his friend to hide in his room with a gesture of his hand.