The cacophonous ring of the school bell flooded the entirety of Whitechapel University. Countless students streamed into the hallways, already polluting the long corridors with their senseless chatter. Despite the vocal distraction, Evie Frye remained hunched over the stack of test papers littering her desk, her face scrunched in concentration. It was the second exam of the semester; she had already aced the first without breaking a sweat, and she had barely studied for that one. Not that she was proud of that acknowledgement.
However, it wasn't her fault.
She had spent a good majority of time that should have been dedicated to intensive studying sweeping up after her brother's mishaps instead. Jacob and his infuriating gang of Rooks had wreaked havoc throughout the campus. Vandalizing the dorm building, initiating all sorts of gang-related fist fights from which he almost always emerged bruised and bloody but proudly triumphant, disrupting lecture sessions, and simply failing to show up to his registered classes were just a few of the crimes Jacob had committed ever since their freshman year, and it had become routine for the authorities to call on Evie to put a leash on her mad hound of a sibling.
A small smile reached her lips as she rotated the head of her pencil over the smooth flesh.
She supposed it wasn't all bad. In fact, Jacob's delinquent behavior served as a surprisingly beneficial platform for the older twin, and she needed that platform to become the new president of Whitechapel University's Student Government Association. Dealing with Jacob proved to the student body that Evie Frye was more than capable of handling any situation, especially those deemed impossible, as most considered the task of controlling Jacob Frye more than a little unfeasible.
Unfortunately her twin's actions were as much a curse as a blessing. To be frank, Jacob gave the 'Frye' name a bad reputation. Although students would be more willing to vote for a candidate who could manage their concerns, the fact that Evie was related someone so unorthodox could still steer her votes towards her adversaries. She could prove them wrong. There was greatness in the Frye blood, and once she became president, Evie would be certain that their name would never be disgraced again. She practically beamed at the thought. Father would be proud.
"Excuse me, Miss Frye?" A soft but urgent voice sliced through Evie's thoughts.
Her cerulean eyes shifted upwards to the space beside her desk, taking in the sight of her frail history professor, Miss Francis Adams. Ms. Adams' silvery hair was tied away from her face in a tight bun. Lines of age had already left their mark on older woman's face, and in her emerald hues one could see her years of wisdom as well as a little unease as she stared down at Evie through thin rounded spectacles. Evie blinked, embarrassed. After a quick surveillance of the room, she realized that she was the only student remaining at her desk; the rest had fled ages ago.
Damn, I let myself get distracted again.
"Oh! I apologize..." Evie began, hastily rising from her seat with papers in tow. She gave her exam one last look over before pasting them into the professor's hand.
"I was a bit worried. Usually you are the first to complete my exams. Was it more difficult than usual?" Ms. Adams questioned as she brought the bundle of paper to her face, scanning the material in an attempt to pinpoint which question could have possibly given Evie such a hard time. "Er, no. I simply took my time reviewing my answers." Evie mumbled as she bit her bottom lip. Reviewing her questions had been her intention, but her thoughts had taken a course of their own – inevitably leading to Jacob (a seemingly bigger distraction with each passing day).
"Mm, very well. If you don't mind Miss Frye, I would like to grade this right now." Miss Adams said with a pleasant smile.
Minutes later, Evie emerged from her history class with her professor's proud statement echoing in her head, 'Perfection Evie, as usual,' Perfection. Yes, that was exactly what Evie shot for, and she wouldn't let anyone, not even her "dear" brother Jacob stand in her way . With a spring in her step, she strolled through the emptying hallways, joining the mass of bodies dispersing to their individual destinations.
Disruptive cheers erupted from the University's Courtyard. A good handful of curious onlookers had crowded around the decent-sized perimeter and were entirely fixated on the violent entertainment unfolding before them. In their midst stood two well-built shirtless men, their massive arms tucked near their faces for protection as they traveled in a tight circle - sizing each other up and preparing for the first blow. The scruffier man, a red clad Blighter, threw the first punch. His bundled fist flew forward with impressive speed, but not fast enough. The other male easily side stepped out of harm's way. His large fingers seized the Blighter's forearm over his shoulder and with one fluid motion, he bent the limb until the unmistakable crunch of bone snapping beneath flesh could be heard.
The crowd roared their encouragement.
The Blighter stumbled backwards as pain engulfed his form. He held his injured arm, feeling the broken bone shift inside his body with even the slightest movement. Just as he was about to release a howl of agony, his opponent's knuckles slammed into his face. Crimson fluid streamed upwards from the Blighter's broken nose, and a resounding thud was heard as he toppled lifelessly onto the floor. The Blighter's compatriots were quick to come to his aid, dragging his body away from further damage. Unfazed by the spurge of cruelty, the spectators praised their new champion, who raised both arms in victory and flashed a wicked grin.
The newly crowned title-holder was none other than Jacob Frye himself, the fearless leader of the Rook gang. His bare sculpted torso glistened faintly with tiny beads of sweat, and blood could be seen clinging onto his fists as the crowd's spokesperson scurried over to his side and bellowed in a loud voice, "Ladies and Gents, I present to you, your winner of today's gang war, Mister Jacob Frye!" No sooner was this exclamation made before a dark figure lunged at Jacob from within the horde. Gasps of surprise was heard, and a flurry of green activity was seen as the Rooks shoved forward through the human swarm, preparing for battle.
This was not a part of the arrangement. Jacob had bargained with one of the Blighters that supposedly owned this section of the University: if Jacob, and Jacob alone, could take down the entire group (a handful of semi-experienced men), then the Blighters would back off and the Rooks could own whatever they'd like. What the Blighters hadn't been expecting was for Jacob to tear through their reinforcements as easily a piece of paper at a shredder's mercy. Now, it seemed they were desperate. The sweaty assailant that clung to Jacob from behind with his arms strapped over Jacob's throat was living proof of that.
A mischievous smirk spread over the twin's mouth as he quietly spoke over his shoulder to his unknown attacker, "Go ahead. Make my day, fucker."
The Blighter lifted his head at the words. He had been expecting the Rook leader to call for his scumbag reinforcements or even freak out at the sudden attack, perhaps throw his body around in a panicked frenzy; however, when the Frye twin turned towards him with fierce burning eyes and a calm knowing grin, his heart sank.
Before he could even think about retreating, Jacob's skull reared backwards, crashing into the other man's face. His strong arms grasped his clothes in an iron grip, hefting the smaller male off of his feet and tossing him unceremoniously over Jacob's body and onto the hard unyielding concrete ground. The Blighter lay motionless on the floor. He didn't dare move for fear of the pain that would surely overtake him. He stared blindly through a haze of red as blood as Jacob casually reached over to a nearby bench, grasping his crisp white shirt and shrugging it over his bare figure. All the while, the Blighter held contact with the Rook leader's deadly eyes. As he continued to watch, Jacob's lips quirked into a simple half smile and he moved to stand beside his fallen enemy. The last thing the Blighter would be able to remember would be Jacob's feet rising to meet his face.
"Oi, you alright boss?" One of the Rooks asked as they crowded around their leader.
"No, the damned tosser stained my shirt,"Jacob grumbled, his hand seized around the thin fabric of his shirt that held the offensive burgundy stain. Hm, perhaps I kicked him a little too hard.. With a sigh Jacob dropped his shirt and turned towards the crowd, which parted automatically for the gang's exit. "Rooks, with me." He said with a confident smile. The Rooks followed without delay, leaving the Blighters to deal with their losses. Jacob could practically feel the countless number of eyes boring into the back of his head from both the Rooks and student body. It was about time they woke up and realized who was truly in charge here at Whitechapel.
His gaze drifted downwards to catch sight of the unattractive bloodstain once more. One of the Rooks could've sworn he heard the boss mutter, 'Curses, this was my favorite shirt too.'
