He felt the gazes of so many looking his way, as the anger folded itself up inside him. Up it rose, then it fell again, folding and folding, denser and denser. The blackness of the initial rage, barely contained, mixing in with fear. Again, and again, it went over and over. His reaction to the Emerson betrayal, as it began to settle, bit by bit. Forced together by the hand of something grand and mighty, that seemed to refuse the position that they stood in.
Even as Greeves walked away, the anger did not fade. In speaking to Greeves, he'd surprised himself – for, it turned out, Oliver knew not himself. Frightened is what he thought himself to be, and he certainly was, but for the anger to rise so quickly despite that, along with overwhelming certainty, as if he was a different creature entirely.
