#Arrogance

Honey is the center of attention.

She holds up The Knight on her phone, triumphant. Her supposed rightful place above people she saw as less than toilet scum. Shining like the sun in the sky, golden and radiant and able to burn anything that came too close.

Her smile has fangs. Her hands have claws. Her eyes hold fires.

Misha knew, he knew, what kind of traits The Midnight Fights brought out of people...and yet he had done nothing but encourage them.

He feels sick.

Nausea only hits harder when those fiery pupils land on him and Elias. Not at the Drunken Serpent who’s being dragged out of the ring and rushed to the nearest hospital. Not at the trail of blood that follows him.

She’s waiting for their thumbs-up, their celebratory faces at her most recent victory, but Misha can’t give that to her no matter what kind of expression she makes.

Displeasure. It’s plain on her face by the wrinkle that forms on the bridge of her nose.

It disappears for a moment when a spectator applauds her with clapping hands and while another hands her a tissue for her bloody nose. Like a servant. 

Her smile twists.

Elias rushes for the phone check-in, not waiting for Honey as she punctures the surging crowd.

Obviously not at all satisfied with their reaction because they don’t shower her in compliments and praise as she expects. Misha used to hate that side of her with a friendly fondness.

Now he just hates it.

“Hello, yes?” Elias had gotten ahold of his phone and hunched over it to block out some of the noise erupting from the warehouse. “There’s an injured student heading down Royale Street, he’s in need of immediate medical attention.”

Honey’s eyes narrow menacingly.

“What’s he doing?”

Misha doesn’t have any words to spare her, but she looks ready to rip the phone out of Elias’ hand unless he says something.

“Honey, you stabbed him, what do you think Eli is doing?”

“He did that to himself, you don’t bring a knife to a fistfight. What else was I supposed to do? Get stabbed instead?”

Honey doesn’t see it.

She doesn’t know what she did wrong.

Misha swallows the bile rising in his throat, trying to keep his attention on Elias' steady voice as he talks to an emergency operator.

“The Drunken Serpent could die today, you-”

Honey snorts.

“He won’t, I didn’t drive the bottle in that deep. I knew what I was doing.”

“That’s not the point!”

All Misha can see is the blood on the concrete floor, the sound of bones crushing against a metal bat, the life draining from Elias’ eyes, the sound he makes thinking he was going to die.

The previous King’s smile.

The shrill of his laugh.

The rest is colored red.

Until Misha is standing over his body, hands dripping in the disgusting color.

Misha knew what kind of traits The Midnight Fights brought out of people because he witnessed them first hand.

Honey doesn’t understand what The Midnight Fights had done to him.

“I won didn’t I?”

She doesn’t even look the slightest bit remorseful.

Misha had made the wrong decision.

And just like two years ago, he’d regret it for the rest of his life.

Honey’s dragged back into the commotion, indulging in her fame with a prideful smile. In the place where she belonged best. There was no coaxing her from this pedestal they’ve mounted her upon, worshipping her like an idol.

Her face says it all.

Basking in the glory of a bloody reward.

Misha can’t take it anymore.

Honey doesn’t even bat an eyelash at their abrupt exit, too busy tending to her newfound admirers to care about those she considered expendable.

And when Misha gets out into the cold, dark street, when he slides against the graffiti-covered wall until he hits the floor, he digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and wills them not to cry.

When would it stop? When would all this stop? When would he finally be rid of The Midnight Fights?

When would it no longer be his fault?

He’d give every last piece of his soul if it meant that this terrible hierarchy would be gone. But even then he can't. He made a promise to his dad. He promised one last thing before running away with Elias’ in his arms and nightmares he’d never forget.

Enjoy your life. 

How could Misha ever learn to enjoy this life?

Someone slides down the wall beside him. Taking a seat so close their shoulders touch and it comes accompanied by the shallow breaths of tears, of choked-up emotions that couldn’t be put into words no matter how many pages you have left to spare.

It takes a few seconds to realize the crying isn't coming from Elias. 

It’s coming from himself.

And despite it all, Elias gives him a smile that’s enough to give Misha a little hope. He clings onto that smile for dear life because it’s the only thing he trusts that won’t make him feel like he’s going insane.

“It’s not your fault, Misha.”

He buries his face into Elias’ shoulder. 

And Elias, who always knew the right words to say and the right thing to do, runs a hand through Misha’s black hair until the crying subsides and he slowly begins to drift off.

More exhausted than he'd ever been. 

Misha didn’t know at the time, as he sits in the comfort of Elias’ presence, that all this would lead him to fight again.

Except this time he’d be facing Honey. 

.

.

.

Honey tells herself she doesn’t care.

She visits the warehouse again and again. Facing any challenger who comes after her Knight, almost as if they take numbers and get in line to meet their untimely demise. These uninspiring wastes of space get knocked out from a single hit.

A knee to one of their torsos grounds a teen for the rest of the fight. Another one surrenders before she throws him onto the floor. More give up without her even making a single move. 

Pathetic fools. The more she fights, the more popularity she gains.

Her Sinstagram reaches new records, her posts get thousands of likes in minutes, her follower count increases by the hundreds, random high schoolers ask for pictures on the street, Godforsaken students worship the ground she walks on, and she’s treated just like she had been at Vainglory Academy. And then some. 

Radiant. Popular. Envied.

Special.

This is what she wanted. It is. She’s sure of it.

So close to being worth more than Charlotte, so close to proving she’s worth more than a cigarette burn right in the middle of her forehead, so close to finally being worth something.

She wants this.

She has an abundance of friends that follow her anywhere after school, buy her coffee in the morning, give her little gifts throughout the day, share their snacks at lunchtime. More friends than she knew what to do with.

Smiling faces shoved into hers so close, she can see the cavities in their molars that fester every time they say some sugar-coated compliment. A girl tells Honey she has a grin that shines like constellations. A boy tells Honey that she has hair softer than any fabric. A person tells Honey her eyes are like the sky after dusk.

This is what she always wanted, isn’t it?

Isn’t it?

Then why is it that when she stands victorious in a fight, looking down on her bloodied opponent with nothing but pride, that she immediately looks to the empty space in the crowd bearing a smile.

A vacant spot that’s roughly the size of two people.

Two annoyingly tall people with disguises that look like they were bought for less than a dollar combined and would pester her with their meaningless worry. 

Reflecting her smile like a mirror.

Spectators fill the empty gap and Honey looks away.

She’s angry. But why?

Honey tugs on her bangs and reminds herself not to care. 

Days bleed together. She doesn’t remember a single one of them. Everything becomes monotonous. 

Smiles. Compliments. Fights. Sinstagram. 

None of these things make her satisfied anymore.

She doesn’t even get an extra second to consider the persistent fire boiling under her skin. Every time she steps outside the comfort of her own home some idiot that looks like they were dragged through the gutter tries to jump her. Always in the middle of a commotion throwing fists and kicks into unsuspecting individuals.

Like right now. 

This walking freakshow on these heinous stiletto platform heels struts across the road in front of her, blocking her and her little posse’s path to Royale Street.

Every step makes a click across the pavement.

Honey almost steps on their petite shiny, little, red toes as they slide into the path of her skates, just asking to be run over. She wants to run them over. The pompous shoes glitter back mockingly, showing her her own reflection in the red plastic. 

Her own face scowls at her. 

Her mood is already sour, the fact she has to look up to glare at him, makes her knuckles crack with rage.

“Well hello, little miss Knight or shall I say, little miss hunnie.bunnie143.”

If she hadn't heard that same phrase used with that same tone at least four times that week already, she might have been more annoyed. Now it just sounds like white noise. 

She could record all the little jabs these Midnight Fight creeps throw at her and play it as a lullaby to fall asleep to. 

They're all the same. Every single one of them. 

The boy with the hideous heels peers down on her with obnoxious red hair, the kind of color you only find in a cheap box dye that burns too saturated and too bright to be natural. It matches his red make-up, his red uniform, his red gym bag, his red everything. 

It almost hurts to look at him. 

He tosses a school blazer over his shoulder like he’s currently modeling for a magazine with a secret photographer hiding in the bushes, standing in a pose that would be photogenic from different angles. The small crew behind him aren’t dressed quite as flashily, but they’ve all got a common build. 

Thick muscular necks and broad shoulders that take up the entire street when lined up side, by side.  

Honey knows background characters when she sees them. 

She'll bite first this time. 

“Get your tacky stiletto heels out of my way or I'll use them to beat you off the street.” 

Let this be over quickly, the less time she has to spend looking up at this prick, the better. Her friends have already left in fear, they always seem to vanish whenever Honey was approached for a fight. Hiding somewhere safe where they could capitalize on the fight with a recording. 

He has teeth as straight as a brick wall and they shine within the frame of his red lips. 

“And your personality is by far the tackiest thing here.”

The metaphorical rubber band keeping Honey altogether slips. 

Her patience hangs on by a sliver, ready to claw out of her throat in the form of foul words. Possibly a few good punches to someone’s tomato-colored head.

He makes a dignified gesture with a flourish of his blazer and a shameless display of his heels, stretching out his grotesquely long legs to make sure the stilettos catch the sunlight. She gets a glimpse of the lettering on his gym bag. 

Dance Team. 

Great. That explains a lot. 

“I heard you were a bitch, but this is impressive.” 

His voice made for theater, grand and hollow so that it could reach the nonexistent audience in the back row.

The boy leans a little closer, red-colored contacts looking her up and down with a gaze that pushes her over the edge. She could've ruined his face at this distance with a swipe of her perfect manicure, but he steps back to strike a pose.

His finger points down on her like a child pointing a magnifying glass at an ant. 

And Honey burns with fury. 

“So I thought I’d get rid of you before you become a problem for me.”

"I don't give a damn," Honey ties her hair back with a scrunchie, "you're nobody to me."

Just another day. Just part of her routine. 

She'd wipe the floor with that bright red lipstick he wears. 

"Nobody, you say?" His voice has a lilt Honey already knows she'll despise. 

He smacks his hands together like one snap of a clapperboard to address the growing crowd. As if he was beginning a performance they all gathered to watch.

“I am The Bishop of The Midnight Fights. The fashionable and gorgeous Vogue at your service.”