When growing up and earning things, by all means not adding growing knowledge to this, but such as prizes and trophies. And one of those, stood out more with a stronger meaning. Gold. A sign of first place. For that person to be on top, higher than all others. Yet, anything lower than that, that person, be yourself or any other, means nothing.
This is a notation pointing to a second stage of winning. The silver. Number two place of winners. A name that only means; the first loser before many follow after it.
"And yet, how is that. A person like you, always getting the one better than me?" White asked out loud to an old photo of his past, with eyes of hated and gritted teeth that held back a full-out rage. "How? I just don't understand. I was older than you. Smarter than you. Faster than you . . ." He took a breath to calm himself, before letting out more words. " . . . B-but somehow, you'd always had the upper hand on me."
Without thinking, rose a hand and slammed the frame down. Not missing the sound of glass breaking from the impact. Or the feeling of skin falling apart when getting cut from a pop-out shard of glass.
As he brought his cut into view, seeing a silver of blood slide down his finger into his open palm. When a puddle size of dime form in his hand, White took grip of it. Feeling the blood cool and starting to harden in his grasp.
His body shook with untold emotions.
"Enjoy holding the gold for now, Black, your time is running out."