From the Ashes of the Phoenix [Shugo/Open]

So apparently, he was proving that British people were assholes. Was that it? He honestly didn't even really know. He hadn't been around anyone from his home country for a long time now. The last British people he had conversed with were his parents, and of course, they were now dead and as for British culture, he really didn't recall much of it. He was of course thankful that his accent had remained in the years that followed his arrival in America, but it mattered little either way. "The weak need to be shown strength, otherwise they will remain weak. It's that simple," he responded, in monotone fashion, sounding bored almost, like he had, had the same conversation a thousand times before hand, or at the very least had the same thought process that many times.

He ignored the blue haired boys remark about the escort, sighing to himself. "Did you expect me to roll out a stretcher for him?" Narin asked, sarcastically. His act of escorting the pair was more than going out of his way for two people that in no way affected his life. The pair could have been run down by a bus before his very eyes and he wouldn't have felt even the slightest ounce of remorse or guilt. They were strangers, and their deaths meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. They were just another casualty of fates hand.

He continued to trail the pair, keeping his distance a few paces behind the two as they progressed down the corridor. His eyes remained fixed ahead. He noted the oncoming threat well before it even thwarted their progress, if it could have been called that. He rolled his eyes as the group of thugs introduced themselves, then allowed the blue haired boy his energetic remarks before stepping forward into the fold. "Christ..." he said with obviously aggravated tone. His eyes remained lifeless and dull, and he cocked his head sideways somewhat, as if measuring the group up. "Whats this, you deaf buddy?!" the leader of the group asked, only he wouldn't even be able to finish his sentence before Narin's fist slammed forcefully into the boys throat, almost crushing his windpipe. The goon fell to his knee's, clutching his throat, gargling sickeningly and gasping in desperation for air.

At that moment, another stepped forward, as though ready to attack but not entirely sure of himself, and before he could come to a concrete decision, Narin grabbed the back of his head and shoved it into the wall beside them at full force, a loud crack sounding out as his blood smeared against the whitewash wall and his body fell to the ground, limply. Narin looked up to the remaining few at that point, his hands returning to his pockets. Fast and fatal, that was Narin's game. It meant dealing with even strong opponents with little difficulty, especially ones who didn't see the threat coming.  The two near fatal blows to the gang members were enough to put the remaining 4 off any idea of attacking.

He slipped a hand into his pocket, whilst bringing his other up before him to inspect the blood that hand landed upon his knuckles, and he observed it as though it were a delicate artefact. "Pick your maggots up and get out of my sight. Crawl your way back to whatever pathetic hole you call a base is and tell them that this hallway belongs to Narin Carter now," he threatened, his face an angered expression.

The remaining few quickly scurried into action, picking up their former comrades and fleeing out of sight. No doubt, the mere mention of his name would be enough to invoke fear. He had been in the gang circle for a long time now, and he belonged to one of the most feared in all of New York, well beyond the walls of the school.

He turned to the haired samaritan, ushering him to continue on with a show of his hand. "Lets not make this last all day, yeah?" he asked, continuing to walk on, with or without the pair.

deltra of gangnam style