"Stop grooming your hair! Are you stupid? You wanna die?" A masked man with a broad, toned body barked at me.
He was trying to intimidate me? How amusing. As if brawling with him mattered more than perfecting my platinum-blonde hair.
"Who do you think you are?" I asked.
"The man who's going to kill you, Romeo."
"It's Romeo Astor Devereaux. When you say my name—say it in full. Peasant." I let the word cut, because people like him must be reminded of their place.
"You arrogant fuck."
"Arrogant?" I tilted my head. "Dare call me arrogant? Yes, arrogant. But not someone you can spit on so carelessly."
From my pocket, I produced a single leaf. With a thought, a crimson rose bloomed in my hand. I breathed in its fragrance—refined, elegant—so unlike the stench of the pleb before me.
"A flower? You think that'll help you now?" He sneered.
Uneducated. Ignorant. Foolish. He truly had no idea what he was dealing with.
"Do you know why roses have thorns?" I asked.
"Hah?"
"Ignorance," I sighed. "Roses have thorns to protect themselves from filthy hands like yours."
"Enough talking! I'll kill you already!"
He uncapped a water bottle. A hydrokinesist.
I snapped a thorn from the rose and set it delicately on my fingertip. With a graceful flick, I sent it flying. As it left my hand, it elongated, twisting into a natural pike.
He drew water into a barrier—inefficient, graceless, utterly useless. The thorn pierced it like mist, impaling his arm before he realized he was struck. More thorns followed—one through his leg, another through his thigh, one pinning his hand.
He collapsed, writhing—a pitiful display of weakness.
"Romeo Astor Devereaux," he groaned, "you dare… spare me?"
"You think you're worth killing? Think again. You'll rot in prison instead."
"This isn't over. I'll return."
"By all means, crawl back, pleb. But next time, I won't bother with restraint."
I dialed the police. Another insect to sweep aside. A hitman, no doubt. Nothing new.
Since childhood, I've been hunted—by rivals, families, governments. All envious. All afraid. All desperate to exploit me. Pathetic.
My gift has always been with me, so deeply a part of myself that I cannot recall life without it. Chlorokinesis. The art of bending plants to my will. Beautiful. Limitless. Yet bound by law: I must sense a plant's presence, and I cannot conjure life from nothing. Only expand, reshape, command what already exists.
A friend once asked how I could be so arrogant, yet still carry myself with dignity. My answer never changes:
Have you ever wondered why roses bear thorns? Everyone admires them. Everyone tries to claim them—even when they are not theirs to take. That is why the most beautiful things are always the most dangerous.
That is balance. That is truth. Whether you accept it or not.
And this is my conviction. Romeo Astor Devereaux's conviction.
"Oh, would you look at that," I murmured, checking the silver-and-gold glint of my Vills Vice—the only one of its kind. A rare piece, but then, so am I.
Late. Of course.
The ceremony can wait. After all… what is a gathering without its Rose King?