#NecessarySacrifice - 1

Misha skips up the stairs at Godforsaken High. The school’s empty this early in the morning except for the custodian who waves to Misha as he passes.

His hair clip has green, enamel leaves with a silver outlining today, one of his personal favorites.

He gets to wear it with the promise of keeping it safe. For his sibling’s sake.

He always arrives early, perusing the quiet hallways. Most Godforsaken students don’t bother coming until a minute before the bell rings and he savors the temporary peace.

The school board put up the list of the best grades for the mock exam right in front of the teacher’s office and his name is situated comfortably at the top. His studying was beginning to show his progress.

A while back, being in just the top 20 might’ve been an impossible feat.

He snaps a picture for his mom. She’d be really proud to see how far he’s come.

“Good Morning, Misha!” Someone says a little too loudly. Like they’re shouting although there’s no noise to justify it.

He jumps and quickly scrambles to catch his phone.

It’s the new girl. He forgets her name.

Surprisingly, she’s tall enough to meet him at somewhat eye level (though if she looked straight forward her eyes would be at his nose), and she uses it to her advantage.

Misha can’t remember the last time someone looked him directly in the eyes like this. Earnest and unwavering. Not a shred of self-doubt.

It wasn’t exactly comfortable.

“...Morning,” He replies, realizing she was waiting for his response.

He pitied her after that embarrassing class introduction and well, guiltily he thinks it’s at least nice to have someone sit next to him even if she was a weirdo. However, she never initiates a conversation or an interaction or much of anything really.

Actually, most of the time she avoids him as much as possible, so this is...different.

“Nice clip, it’s from the Fuji x SPROUTS collaboration right?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Thanks, and yeah...my little sibling’s a big fan.”

She’s walking a little too close, shining like a stage light pointed directly into his eyeballs, burning his retinas with just her wide grin.

He’s seen her during class, her furrowed scowl and haughty attitude. Misha doesn’t know who she’s trying to fool, but he’s not buying it.

Immediately, he’s suspicious.

Luckily, she doesn’t pander.

Her eyes slide to the side, relieving Misha of her intense gaze. It’s like stepping into a dark room after being outside for too long, he has to squint to regain his vision.

“I need some help,”

Ah a favor, of course.

Everything always had to be with strings attached, he wonders mindlessly if she’ll ask him to follow her on Sinstagram.

She obviously has ulterior motives. She wants to use him for something. He shouldn’t help her.

Despite a part of him screaming this is shady, another part of him wants to help out an...acquaintance? Can he even call her that?

Her plea for help tugs on his usually benevolent conscience. It’s at least the first time she approached him with something, it can’t be that bad.

Could it?

“Alright,” He resigns and opens the door leading into the 2-B classroom. “What do you need?”

Misha cherishes the vacancy of the early morning classroom. No smokers, no rowdy groups, no noise. He spares a bit of that serenity to indulge the girl who probably knows just as much about accessories as his sibling by the sheer amount of bracelets and clips she wears.

That part of her is a bit endearing.

She beams.

When she talks, her head bobbles from side to side.

“Great! Please tell me everything you know about The Midnight Fights and how-”

Misha doesn’t wait for her to finish. “Nevermind, I don’t want to help.”

The smile plastered on her face stutters.

“What, wait,” She tries to get back his cooperation.

In an instant, her face scrunches into a look of displeasure, and her lips purse together in a tight grimace. Funny how fast she changes when she doesn’t get what she wants.

“Just tell me how I can join.”

“No,” Misha doesn’t hesitate.

“Why? Just tell me. I’ll follow you back on Sinstagram if you do.”

A hand is placed on her hip as if she had just given him the reward of a lifetime. Every sparkly ray of sunshine she was wearing just mere seconds before, melts away completely and all that’s left is a look Misha swears he’s seen on murderers in those late-night crime shows.

Completely lacking sympathy. An egocentric maniac.

Maybe she’d fit in with those greedy bastards, fighting each other for meaningless ranks in an even more useless competition to see who’s better than who. They called it a test of strength.

Misha calls it a test of humanity.

“No thanks, I’m good,” Misha pulls out his notebook, trying to end the conversation. “Stay away from The Midnight Fights.”

And he means it. Things he’s buried come up with just the mention of it, his good morning completely ruined by two words.

He runs a hand through his hair until it hits his enamel clip.

He just wants to drown in his notes for the rest of the morning, whether he’ll actually study or not is his business.

Of course, it becomes her business too.

Perfectly painted, honey-yellow nails slam down on top of his notebook, preventing him from turning the cover. He remembers her name now.

Misha expected Honey to have a temper, the way a spoiled child would when something doesn’t go their way, but not one like this.

Worse than any toddler tantrum, her nails curl over the notebook like claws on its prey and a wave of molten anger boils behind her brown irises. Like she’s about to combust.

All the lines of her face pull towards the center, where her eyebrows and creases of her nose collide, the twitch in the corner of her mouth fighting to turn into a frown. It doesn’t even keep her smile anymore.

If Misha cared a little less, he might have told her all about The Midnight Fights and pointed her in the correct direction to get her ass kicked, but again his conscience eats him alive.

Misha wouldn’t wish that curse on anyone. He just wouldn’t.

“I need to know what this King deal is about,” It comes out as a threat. “You’re going to tell me or-”

Misha sweeps her hand off the desk, the one leaning on top of his book and supporting all her weight. Her eyes go wide before she tumbles to the floor, unfortunately, taking his notes with her, but it’s a necessary sacrifice.

“Let it go,” Misha says indifferently, holding out a hand to help her back up. Or for her to pick up his notes. Either way, he hopes she gets the message, this isn’t something he wants to talk about.

But Honey doesn’t.

It’s like trying to reason with a brick wall.

A brick wall with the worst case of bloodlust Misha had ever seen.

Her hand goes for the front of his shirt.

Misha catches her wrist.

But she’s strong. Stronger than he assumed and her flawless manicure grips the fabric of his jacket, taking his hands with the motion.

Suddenly on the defensive, Misha makes a move to twist out of her grip, but Honey has recklessly thrown all her weight into the fists clutching his jacket. She slams him against the windows and the glass rattles in their panes.

It had been a long time since someone wished him good morning.

It had also been a long time since someone drove him into a corner.

The sound of voices and an approaching crowd stop them both. Her grip on his jacket loosens and Misha doesn’t wait another second.

He wedges his leg in between them, knee pulled up to his chest and foot in her stomach, then lightly taps. Just enough for her to lose her balance and fall back safely into her own chair.

Other Class 2-B students open the door. Misha gives them a casual wave, which they don’t return.

Honey catches herself on the back of the seat, which creaks on uneven legs beneath her, the sound harmonizing with her grinding teeth. Glaring at Misha through her bangs.

She takes a breath to say something, probably an insult or another threat, but he cuts her off.

“Sorry,” Misha reaches for his notes still on the floor, Honey has stepped on them in her ire.

“But don’t ask me about it again.”

He hadn’t been this belligerent in a long time, it almost makes him laugh.

Honey doesn’t agree, but she also doesn’t argue. For a moment he thinks she’d attack him again with the way her body was poised to jump.

Instead, she surrenders to her seat and tugs at her fringe so hard it looks like it hurts.

Misha eyes her wearily. He was a little curious.

Either he was losing his edge or this hot-headed girl had just overwhelmed him in a fight, and that was something worthy of note.

She had the potential to win The Midnight Fights and that made her inexplicably dangerous.