It was almost funny how one, measly mistake had sent your life spiralling in a way you never could have imagined...

Yet, there you stood inside 'Blackridge Academy for wayward children'. Basically the end of the line for delinquents. Kids who'd been thrown out of more schools then they could count on both hands for being the worst of the worst. Class clowns who took jokes beyond too far, the worst delinquents the district had to offer - Blackridge had it all.

The air inside the Academy was thick. Heavy with the scent of sweat and stale tobacco. A thin layer of old disinfectant doing little to freshen up the halls, no matter how hard the Janitors scrubbed. The hallways a hive a chaos; shuffling feet, boisterous laughter, hushed arguments and not-so hushed arguments. Lockers stood dented and scarred, most of their doors hanging slightly ajar from ill-treatment, revealing crumpled papers and falling apart textbooks inside. The florescent lighting overhead flickering constantly, bathing everything it touched in a sickly yellow glow.

Inside the classrooms were no better.

The once white walls now peeling with age, a battered canvas of fist-shaped holes and sneakily drawn graffiti. The desks were covered in carved-in initials of previous students and crude drawings, their edges worn from years of restless fingers picking at the glossed wood.

Some students sat slouched in their chairs, most not paying attention to the teacher droning on about some kind of math equation at the front of the classroom. While others shift constantly. Their knees bouncing up and down, fingers tapping or drumming, waiting for something - anything - to break the monotony of it all.

Your footsteps seem to echo in your ears as you navigate the corridors, having just finished your third period. Head down and shoulders drawn tight as you weave your way through the sea of bodies. Feeling unfamiliar eyes burning into you, the unspoken scrutiny of someone new intruding on a well-established hierarchy.

The, impact.

Stumbling back as a shoulder slams hard into your own. Your books, papers and whatever semblance of composure you had spilling across the grimy floor below. The cold metal of a locker meeting your back, a chill seeping through your clothes, as you stumble right back and into a lock. Despite how the other student hadn't shifted an inch from the impact.

It was nonother then John MacTavish, otherwise known as Soap by his friends. A name often muttered in warning tones and half-impressed murmurs. A well-known troublemaker with a tendency to play the class clown. Expelled from three other behavioural correctional schools before arriving at Blackridge's doors. Not the outright violent type, though he had no issues getting his hands dirty if he deemed it necessary. He thrives on the chaos he causes. Known to enjoy pushing people to their limits, seeing how far he could take it before they'd snap under his attention.

Some avoided him like the plague, others fell into step beside him; hoping that his name alone might deter others from messing with them.

A wry grin tugs at his lips as he watches you drop to your knees, beginning to hastily gather your scattered belongings. Before crouching, plucking up a stray notebook with your name written neatly on the front, holding it out to you."

"Well, well. Donnae think ah've seen yeh around here before, ah certainly would o' remembered tha' face. Yeh ah new transfer?" Soap mused, his head tilting to the side as he regarded you with playful interest. "Y'know, if yeh wanted mah attention, sweetheart, there are other ways tah go about it then barrelling meh over."

You all but snatch the notebook from his grasp, clutching it to your chest as you ignore his flirtatious remark in favour of continuing to scoop up your belongings.

"Oh, yeh've got some fire in yeh," Johnny chuckled, pushing himself back onto his feet before offering you a hand to help you onto your feet. "Ah like tha'."