Drinking on the job was nothing new for Detective Inspector James Phillips, but he wasn’t on the job tonight. He’d all but wrapped up his most recent case earlier in the evening and, after traipsing home to drop off some of his things, headed out for a well-needed drink.  The dingy bar he frequented - The Crown and Crow - wasn’t far down the street from where his apartment building was, so he’d walked. No sense in risking a car crash in a week like this. Enough people had died already, he didn’t need to add his own body to the toll. Though, with the amount of whisky he’d imbibed in the last hour he’d been sat at the bar, he might end up doing so anyway.

What sounded like old rock music was droning ceaselessly out of an old, broken jukebox on the corner of the worn down plastic flooring that served as a dance floor back in the day. It was occasionally still used for its original purpose when small-time bands’ gigs or 18th birthday parties were held here, but - thankfully - the bar was almost empty right now. All the better, really, for James, who was knocking back his umpteenth glass; the world turning as golden as his odd yellow eyes for a good few moments before the heavy glass clunked back down onto the worn wooden top. He was surprised that a groove hadn’t formed underneath his usual spot yet.

Early in his career. when he was a fresher face in the force, James had been nicknamed ‘the Wolf,’ due to his eyes. Now, as high as he was, the name definitely stuck. James was the Big Bad Wolf.

“Rough night, Detective?” asks the barman - a balding man by the name of Wiley. James knows him well now; he’d been coming here increasingly frequently as he rose through the ranks. Now, at the top of his game, he’s been here almost every night.

“You could say that,” James replies flatly, tipping his glass slightly so that Wiley could fill it yet again. In the back of his mind, he wondered if the man realised how much he drank, or why. There was no way he could ever know the why. But, with how things were going in the case, he might just find out anyway.

“Any details?”  If James was a betting man, which he often was, he would have put money on that being Wiley’s response. The guy always seemed eager to know the juicy bits of James’ cases, even if he knew James really couldn’t tell him everything.

“Nothing public yet. But, remember the girl that got attacked last month?”

“How could I forget? Happened right outside, didn’t get business for days - well, except for you.”

“We think we’re closing in on the guy who did it. That’s the short of it,” James says with a sigh, ignoring the small dig at his growing crutch, and takes another long, almost sarcastic, swig of whisky. He always came in the hope of moving on from his cases, even though he knew Wiley would bring them up. Maybe he didn’t really mind; after all, it was good to talk to people - right? His brother would probably say otherwise, he thought absentmindedly. The alcohol must be getting to him.

“The long?”

“She wasn’t the only one. That’s all I can tell you.”

Wiley’s eyebrows shoot up into his receding hairline, but his next question is drowned out by a sharp scream from outside. Any other night, James probably would have ignored it. But during this case? Any scream was someone still alive, and that meant that there wasn’t a lot of time. He got to his feet, slamming the glass down, and headed for the door. Before he reached it, however, there was another, bloodcurdling cry - this one, he recognised. This one made his blood boil. His brother.

Despite being a detective, James easily turned a blind eye to his brother’s actions. Even helped cover them up. It was no secret between them that James’ identical twin was the ‘violent killer’ the papers were heralding the ‘Ripper Returned’ after the recent violent murders. But nothing led back to him, they were careful about that. James couldn’t lose his brother, not after their parents’ very public deaths. From being barely 19, they had both been the only family that the other had.

So it was with a racing pulse that James headed outside, to find his dear brother had apparently messed with the wrong girl. Or, at least, her guy friend - who currently had his twin pinned against the brick wall of the alleyway across from the bar. James didn’t hesitate, heart pounding in his ears as he pulled the guy off his brother.

“Hey. Lay off,” he snarled, wolfish yellow eyes narrowing. The burly man spat in his face, and James saw red. His fist swung before he could stop it.

Despite being identical, James was a lot stronger than Adam - his work in the force had called for it since day one. So every punch, every knee to the stomach, every elbow to the back of the neck was more powerful, more calculated - even in his rage. In fact, he barely noticed that he was pretty much beating the guy into the floor by now, and that he was definitely unconscious.

When he pulled away from the guy, Adam was almost finished with his original prey. The girl was bleeding out, eviscerated, and long dead already. James stood up and straightened the slightly bloody tie around his neck, calming down enough to speak. He turned to Adam.

“Clean up your mess,” he spat, and Adam frowned.