Frost woke up at the back of class from someone tapping his arm. The coffee didn't work… He opened his eyes slowly to see a woman that was almost impossibly beautiful by most standards. Her hand was slightly outstretched, looking hesitant about whether to tap him again. She smiled upon realizing he was awake, backing away a single pace and placing her arms behind her back. Frost realized he recognized this woman as his brain came back to life slowly.
Lana Whitehall was a woman of quite above average height with a slim and fit sort of build. At first glance of her physique, Frost assumed that she might've been a runner, or perhaps played a sport like soccer. She had a freckled face, light blue eyes, and long blonde hair that looked white in the sunlight. Lana was the picture of a Scandinavian beauty, and she spoke with an accent that Frost thought was Swedish. They'd been sitting beside each other for two whole months in this class, but this was somehow all he knew about her.
"Wakey wakey," she said.
"I wasn't sleeping," he replied, sitting up and feeling his back crack in three different places.
"Right…" Lana grabbed the top of his head and forcefully turned it in the direction of the professor. Frost locked eyes with the man who was staring in his direction, and whose gaze he'd been purposely avoiding until Lana had oh so rudely forced him to look. The balding old man pointed at Frost and gestured for him to come over, down to the bottom of the lecture hall.
Frost grabbed Lana's wrist and removed her hand from his head. "Thanks for that. I was trying to ignore him."
Lana was focused on something different. A look of surprise was on her face. "Frost. Your hands are really callused…"
"Hm?" He glanced at his own hands as if oblivious to his physique. "I guess so, yeah. I do calligraphy." He dropped his response in an extremely casual manner, but immediately cracked up inside. Jesus H. Christ. I couldn't come up with a dumber response if I tried. Better hope she's a dumb blonde.
Lana – so sweet Lana – just took what he said at face value. "I didn't know it was so intense. You really got those calluses from calligraphy!?" She cupped her chin and said, "hm. Well, whatever."
Frost sighed in relief. Lana walked past him with her bag slung over her shoulder and seemed like she was ready to go. At the last moment, about three metres away from him, she stopped. The classroom had emptied now. It was only them and the professor who was too far to hear anything.
Frost got a bad feeling, and decided to take the initiative. "You know. Your hand is pretty callused, too."
"Frost…" She turned around and looked down on him in his seat. She narrowed her eyes and suddenly looked as if she was staring at a bug. "You aren't one of the other two, are you?" As she asked the question, one of her hands slipped into the interior of her jacket. A uniquely threatening gesture that Frost was used to dealing with gangsters.
Frost just looked at her like she was speaking a foreign language. "What?"
This response seemed to be enough for her. She removed her hand and sighed lightly. "Nevermind. I'll see you Thursday."
"Yeah. See you then." Frost spoke out to her, but she was already marching in the other direction and waving over her shoulder. What a bizarre woman. Are they all like that in Sweden, I wonder? He stood up, adjusted his glasses, and swung his bag over his shoulder. For a moment he hesitated. It was viable to just leave the lecture hall quickly enough to escape the professor's wrath, but… No. Not today. Today he'd be a good student. It might help balance his karma.
Professor Graka was waiting for him patiently. "We're going to have a problem here, Direshard."
"Right down to it, huh? You even know my name…" In a class of something like a hundred students, this fact was probably bad news. Frost sat down on the edge of the stage and made himself at home. As well, making himself look smaller and shorter like this had the chance to make Graka feel pity. This type of psychological trick probably wouldn't work on a professor, though.
"Hard not to know the name of the biggest flunker in the class." Graka shuffled papers on his podium, hardly sparing Frost a glance until he produced a page and held it out to him. "I'm not supposed to show you this so early, but maybe it'll be encouragement of some sort."
Frost took the paper and flipped it over to the correct side to gaze at the contents. He very much expected what he saw, but it still stung a little bit somewhere deep inside of him. As usual, he readied an excuse that wasn't exactly untrue. "I'm very busy outside of school, professor. I can't help it."
Graka had no doubt heard more creative excuses in his time as a professor. He just stuck his hands in his pockets and looked disappointed. "Well I suggest you help it, or I don't imagine you'll be in school much longer. You seem like a rational enough fellow. I trust we won't have this conversation a second time."
Frost wordlessly held the paper out to him.
"Keep it. Pin it on your wall as encouragement." Graka filed the rest of his papers into a little briefcase and buttoned it shut. "I'll see you Thursday. Awake."
Frost was left alone in the auditorium with a paper showing his failure in his hands. He heard the sound of the door snapping shut as Graka left him alone. For a long time he just stared at the paper which was a reflection of his whole life. He tightened his grip and it crinkled in pain. This paper… He wanted to destroy it, to watch it burn away like the rest of his problems. But killing the messenger would do nothing.
He didn't know how much time passed like that, but the next class started to arrive before he knew it. Unfamiliar faces looked at him strangely, unaware. Frost pushed the emotions down as he took a breath of fresh air. Ignoring the gazes, he marched for the exit, crumpling the paper and tossing it into the recycling bin on his way by. No, he didn't need this reminder. His failures already lived in his mind constantly.
It had been a measly two months since he'd arrived at university, and yet everything was already starting to fall apart. He'd become so obsessed with the name he was making out on the street that the line dividing his two lives had started to solidify. The rush of combat and the riches of robbery. It made him happy like nothing else in life had the power to do. Was it more important than keeping the promise he'd made to her, though? The time had come to make the choice. Was he Frost Direshard the lawful student, or Frost Direshard the rich criminal?
He'd promised Vera that they'd graduate university, make money, and live free together. Even ignoring Vera, he'd promised himself that he would be free no matter what, after so long living in a prison. Next time he saw her… She was the one person he couldn't bear it in his heart to disappoint. She'd already be disappointed if she saw what he'd done to pay for it. Failing wasn't an option. He would not. He could not.
With the pressure mounting, Frost Direshard dreamed of the energy drink left in the fridge. Even so, he turned around and doubled back to retrieve his reminder from the trash.
Pain is just weakness leaving the body. One of the caretakers at the orphanage had told him this a long time ago, after he'd scraped his knee on the ground. He wasn't sure if it was actually true, but he believed it was. He'd helped a lot of people lose their weakness in his life… Frost often repeated this mantra to himself in his head, and he did so now as he spat blood into the sink.
He took his glasses off and set them on the counter. He didn't actually need them to see, but rather to keep up the type of appearance he wanted. Weak and unassuming. He splashed water on his face, shot himself a deadpan stare in the mirror, and whispered to himself again. "Pain is just weakness leaving the body. Don't forget it."
He walked out of the bathroom into a completely different atmosphere. His clock radio was playing a song by the Rolling Stones that he vaguely knew the words to. Meanwhile, his bed was perfectly made and his desk was orderly. On his bulletin board, two things were pinned. The paper of his grades – crinkled and ruined after being recovered from the bin – accompanied by the incoming bill due in December. Frost stared at both of them for a moment and nodded his head in resignation. He wouldn't forget anymore.
He'd gotten so caught up in the motion and the thrill. It wasn't about money anymore, and maybe it never had been. He'd made enough money to pay for a full ride by now. He'd gone searching for greatness and he'd learned that greatness didn't lay upon the tracks that society set out. Greatness was out there in the night with the unfathomable riches and the fame. Greatness was in your name being known and feared. But most importantly, greatness was in having the freedom to do what you want and be what you want, regardless of the rules. He'd never have enough freedom until it killed him.
Was his obsession with greatness large enough to break the promise to the only person that mattered to him? Frost didn't know. He didn't know if it mattered anymore. Vera wasn't here. She wasn't witnessing his struggle. She didn't care… Did she? University… Was there any point?
Frost felt like he was staring into an abyss asking himself these questions. It was a slippery slope. No. Start questioning his devotion only a little and all would be lost. Frost Direshard would carry out that promise. He'd graduate and attain that freedom for himself no matter what. Otherwise, he'd never be able to look her in the eye.
"Krista!" He opened the door just a crack. "I'm heading to bed, alright!? Leave me alone!"
"Dude, it's like ten o'clock!" A voice called back from somewhere.
"Fuck off!" Frost couldn't think of a clever response. He closed the door and swung the lock.
Somehow, Krista hadn't put two and two together on this stuff. Frost went to bed early almost every single night, and yet was somehow always tired in the morning, looking beat up and his face sunken. The reasoning Frost gave was that he had insomnia. This wasn't even close to true, in fact it could be said that he loved sleep and had an easier time sleeping than anyone else.
Frost pulled a black sweater over his head. His hair was long enough that he was able to tie it back into a frankly pathetic ponytail maybe two or three inches in length. He further hid his hair by throwing the hood over it, casting shadow on his face. After that, he went prone and pulled a gym bag from underneath his bed, unzipping it to reveal a stash of some things that a university student probably shouldn't own.
He strapped a knife to his ankle and pulled his pant leg over it. Next was a crowbar, unrivalled for its utility even more so than a knife. Good for climbing, fighting, breaking in, and anything else that might need a hard metal bar. Frost glanced at the stacks of money in the bag, then zipped it up and climbed to his feet. His body felt like it was in surprisingly good shape. The energy drink was running through his veins and keeping his eyes wide open. Yeah, he thought, I'm feeling good tonight.
The night seemed endless beyond his window. The wind whistled past, gentle and still somewhat warm for an October night. Frost placed one hand on the sill and another on the window, leveraging himself to open it up further. Once there was enough room, he heaved his weight into it and felt the wind brush against his nose. This was the freedom that was only accessible to him at night. The thrill. The hunt. The version of him that no one else could know about.
Graduating was only one of his promises. The second was to find freedom. This was his freedom. Freedom from the rules and from the constraints of daytime troubles. He gripped the window with both hands and threw himself out into the night.
If this was to be the last time, he might as well enjoy it to the fullest.