James Smith was a regular ass guy in a regular ass world—well, regular in the sense that people still went to work, still hated Mondays, and still posted cringe online for free.

But tech-wise?

Yeah, the world was somewhere between "modern day" and "yo why the hell do we have plasma guns but not flying cars?"

They didn't have hovercars yet, but they had handheld weapons that could turn a car into fondue, so... baby steps.

Anyway, none of that mattered. He never got one of those fancy neural implants everyone was hyped about.

Why would he? He didn't trust that chip-into-brain nonsense.

That was how horror movies started.
"Bro, did you see the latest episode of One Punch Man? That shit was straight ass."

Michael looked offended. Not annoyed—offended, like James had personally spit in his cereal. His eyes going from their usual blue to red for few seconds.

A change that seem to happen, anytime his emotions flared.

They did return back to Normal, a brief description of the man...well, Michael was 6 feet tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed, most of the time.

Basically the "corporate approved white boy" template. His muscles were compact, clean, and built for speed. Sometimes he got pale from being a night owl; man slept like he was allergic to sunlight.

He also had this old ass ring he wore around his finger 24/7.

From what James knew, Michael was rich. Like old money rich. His family immigrated to the US during slavery times—he said around 1619.

James didn't pry about how his family multiplied wealth that fast. If Michael didn't wanna say it, James wasn't asking.

All that to say: Michael came from money, yet still chose public school because he wanted to "experience the world."

Rich people were weird.

"Yeah, they cropped Atomic Samurai's hair. It looked horrible," James said.

He and Michael couldn't be more different. Michael was the golden boy.

James was dark-skinned, muscular, and carried something like a "permanent anti-bitches aura." Didn't bother him, though.

"Did you pass the math exam?" Michael asked, already expecting the answer.
"Yeah, I did. Shit was easy."

Michael yawned like this wasn't even worth discussing.

"Of course it was for you. You get straight A's." James groaned.

Michael playfully punched him.

"Cheer up, Bob. You'll get it next time."
"Easy for you to say. Your grades don't look like this."

He showed him the paper—F's. A whole graveyard of F's.

"Oof." Michael winced.

James sighed. Oh well.

"You wanna hit the arcade?"

"Why not." James had already hit rock bottom emotionally, so whatever.

As a side note, James had a white-ass first name despite being black as hell. America was like that.
They headed into the gaming café.

"Michael, James, same as usual?" the shopkeeper called.

"You know it," Michael said.

James sighed.

"Failed again?" the shopkeeper asked.

"Is it that obvious?"

"You look like you watched your crush get smashed in front of you... so yes."

James paused.

...Okay maybe it was obvious.

Michael jumped in to change the vibe. "Got any new games?"

The owner thought, then grinned.

"Oh yeah. New one just dropped: Werewolf vs Vampire. Apparently a best seller."

Michael instantly looked disgusted.

"As if those furry bastards stand a chance."

"Sure, I'm in," James said.

"It's in the back. Don't forget, we close at 8."

They walked to the back. James dropped his backpack, turned on the PC, and opened the DVD tray.

"I can't believe this place still uses these."
Michael shrugged. "I like it better. Physical copies give more freedom."

"You like old stuff."

"Feels nostalgic."

"Or because your house looks like a museum?"
Michael didn't deny it. Just yawned, clicked "Vampire," and leaned back.

"Guilty as charged."

His canines were already sharp-looking, and his blue eyes briefly flashed red—the kind of red that says 'I'm hungry and trying not to eat you right now.'

James didn't notice.

What he did notice was the game.

"What is this bullshit?!" James yelled. "Why do vampires get all the cool moves and the werewolves get—what? Super strength? That's it?!"

"Cope harder," Michael smirked. Ragebaiting at max efficiency.

"This is so stupid! Vampire bias is CRAZY."
Michael looked smug.

"It's the truth. Those beasts only have strength. We vampires are better."

James stopped.

"...What do you mean we?"

Michael smiled like that was funny.

James lost again.

"This is some bullshit," he muttered, slamming the keyboard.

"If you want, I could turn you into a vampire,"

Michael said casually. "You'd be better."

James waved him off. "Nah, I'm good."
He glanced outside.

It was dark.

"Shit, I gotta go!" He grabbed his bag. "Thanks for the game, bro—but I gotta run!"

Michael waved lazily.

"Be safe."

James sprinted off. It was already 7:50 and pitch black—daylight savings was doing its thing.

Running through the streets, he saw something.

A wolf.

In the forest line.

Bleeding.

If he stopped now, he'd be late... but he sighed.
Cut to him inside a convenience store:

"Yes, I'd like bandages, a towel, some meat, maybe disinfectant."

"That'll be $30."

"That's expensive."

"Blame tariffs."

He didn't care.

He paid with Apple Pay and followed where he'd seen the wolf. Ofcourse he did make sure to close the shop door behind him.

In the woods, he found it: a snow-white wolf with blue, almost human eyes. Female. Normal wolf size, but clearly hurt bad.

He approached.

The wolf growled, baring teeth.

He placed the raw meat on the ground and backed up 30 feet.[recommanded distance]

The wolf limped over and began eating.

Beautiful creature, even while injured.

He approached slowly.

"I'm friendly," he whispered. "I just wanna help you."

The wolf stared at him, clearly untrusting.
He started working anyway: disinfecting the wounds, using tweezers—

"Silver?!"

He pulled out five silver bullets.

Who the hell shoots wolves with silver?

After bandaging her, he offered more meat.
"There... you're safe."

He reached for the other leg—

The wolf bit him.

"OW—okay, damn!" He winced. "Can I PLEASE heal you?"

They locked eyes.

Then she relented.

He fixed her up... and then checked his phone.

11 PM.

FUCK.

He booked it toward home, cutting through the forest.

He was moving—jumping over logs, swinging on vines like Tarzan, sprinting full speed with the moon overhead.

He was 75% home when—

Rustling.

Nope.

Nope nope nope.

He immediately turned around and SPRINTED.
He was black, not white—he wasn't about to investigate shit.

A deep, primal owl-like screech came from the bushes.

Nope².

Running on pure fear, adrenaline flooding him, heart pounding—

A shadow leaped overhead.

THUMP.

A 9-foot-tall monster landed in front of him.
A bipedal wolf, muscles flexing like it bench-pressed cars, fur bristling, jaws filled with razors.

"...Fuck."

"Well, well. Where you think you're going?"

Oh good.

It could talk.

Wonderful.

It walked toward him on two legs—unnervingly human.

James ducked as it pounced.

It flew past him, biting a tree in half.

He wasn't fast enough to avoid everything—its claws raked his back, carving a massive gash.
The wolf ripped the tree in half and threw it aside like trash.

Oh, he was SO cooked.

It pounced again—

But a white blur slammed between them.

The white wolf.

Except now she was bipedal, fur glowing in the moonlight.

Majestic and terrifying.

"Luna, what the hell?" the male wolf growled.
"We're not allowed to hunt humans. Did you forget?" she barked back.

"It was just a quick snack," he grumbled. "Don't be on my ass."

"Because of your rampages, the hunters are in town. Tone it down unless you want us ALL dead."

He snarled.

"Such a bitch."

Then left.

The white wolf shrank down, returning to normal wolf form.

She padded over to James.

"You'll forget this," she whispered.

His mind fogged instantly.

His will crumpled.

And he passed out.

A/N so the date it get release is important to me for lore reason, if I could I would have dropped this the 29 of February when it was a leap year but I was still writing fic back then.

This book will get updated once or twice a week, depending on how I feel that days, I am already an arc ahead so that like 30 ish chapter guaranteed.

When he woke up the next day, the sun hit his skin, the first thing he saw was his ceiling... as in the literal, bland, "I-should-really-put-some-posters-up" ceiling of his room.

He groaned, lazily dragging his body out of bed. He was wearing his PJs—they were Dragon Ball-themed. Don't question him.

He even had a bonnet on because his luscious hair deserved care and luxury treatment at all times.

"Fuck..." he groaned again, standing up fully. His muscles felt stiff as a motherfucker.

"I feel like shit," he muttered, dragging himself deeper into the room toward the connected bathroom—because yes, his room had that level of privilege.

He opened the door to said bathroom. The light flicked on, revealing a clean-but-lived-in space: soft grey tiles, fogged-over mirrors from last night, a glass sliding shower door that's definitely seen better days.

He walked straight to where he needed to be—where his toothbrush was.

He grabbed it, slapped toothpaste on the bristles, and started brushing while staring at his reflection.

He looked like shit. Like he had been folded, unfolded, run over by a bus, and then put back into human shape as a joke.

His hair was messy as hell, bonnet fighting for its life.

He yawned, scratching his head.

"Today, I have History class... maybe after I can go game with Michael," he pondered.

"I need to study though," he pondered deeper, as if this would somehow manifest the knowledge into his skull.

He spit out the paste, rinsed, spit again.
Then came the mouth juice—he didn't know the actual name.

That shit you gargle for a few seconds before spitting out.

The one you're absolutely NOT supposed to swallow unless you want to see God.

He stared at himself again.

He looked... decent. Barely.

Turning around, he slid open the shower door and turned on the hot water. He liked a steamy bath from time to time.

Though he did have history today, so—
He switched it to cold water with the dead stare of a soldier preparing for battle.

He removed his clothes and stepped in.

"Challa, hetchalla~" he began singing the Dragon Ball Z opening as he showered, because of course he did.

His mind drifted to the weird dream he had—it felt real, like he'd been attacked by a bunch of wolves.

But when he woke up? No wolves. No scratches. No nothing.

From the look of it... he just hallucinated it.
When he finished scrubbing and washing his hair, he reached to turn the water off—
And ripped the knob straight out.

He paused.

He had just ripped it out. The knob. He had ripped that shit out.

He stared at his hand... then the knob.

HOW?

'Maybe I used too much strength?' he reasoned.

That excuse felt flimsy as hell but he clung to it like a lifeline.

He gently tried to put the knob back... only to accidentally shove it in so hard cracks formed in the tile.

Though, hey—water stopped. Job done?

He slid the shower door open—
Shatter.

James froze. Slowly, he turned around.
The whole glass door was crushed like he'd flicked it.

"This is going to cost a lot to repair," was his only thought. Not his inhuman strength. Not his clear stat jump. No—repair costs.

Believe it or not, he'd always been physically gifted. Him running through the forest yesterday like a human bullet was normal for him.

Peak human stats? He had those built in.
He looked in the mirror.

Something was off.

Yeah, he knew he was ripped before, but now? His body fat looked like 5–10%. His definition was crazy, like he became a professional athlete overnight. Before he was closer to 15%.

'Huh...did my dick grow longer?' he wondered, staring critically.

'And when the fuck did I grow a bush?' He shaved religiously. It made his meat look longer—don't judge him. He was still human.

His attention shifted again.

He heard wings.

He turned and saw a fly drifting lazily through the air.

"Why is it moving so slowly?"

Maybe he should stop hanging with people who smoked, because this felt like a high in HD.

{I made the best cake of this world}

His brows furrowed. That was his neighbor's voice. Which he shouldn't be able to hear. The walls were thick—blessedly thick, unlike that time he lived next to a playboy.

He did not need to relive that trauma.

He grabbed a towel, dried off, and walked back into his room.

On his desk were his clothes.

A clean white tee.

Charcoal quarter-zip with that soft, heavy drape.
Matching wide-leg trousers.

Crisp white sneakers under the desk.

"They look decent," he said.

He pulled the tee over his head. Cool fabric sliding smoothly down his torso.

Next came the quarter-zip—oversized sleeves swallowing his wrists before settling perfectly on his shoulders.

The white tee peeked out in a clean layer.
Then the wide-leg pants—loose, comfortable, and falling straight over his shoes like they had a personal vendetta against wrinkles.

He looked like the final boss of "Comfy Drip."
Finishing with the sneakers, he tied the laces, stood, and checked himself.

Black on black with clean white contrast. Minimalist, effortless, unintentionally stylish. The kind of fit people pretend they "just threw on," even though he laid it out like a ritual offering.

He applied deodorant, then—like any man whose taste had not yet evolved—he blasted Axe body spray like it owed him money.

He looked decent. If he ignored the sensory overload. And the sweating. And the glass he broke. None of his business.

He checked his phone—a message from Michael.

Michael: You got home safe (sent last night, 8:30 PM)

He replied:
You: Yuh, got sidetracked with a puppy but I got there safe and sound. (7:30 AM)

Instant response:

Michael: And here I thought you got snagged by vampires 😅 (7:30 AM)

James rolled his eyes.

You: Jeez, what is it with you and thinking vampires would get me, I am not that tasty 🙄

Michael: Says the dude with the Rh-null blood type, wouldn't mind giving you a nimble 😏

James stared at the screen.

You: ...That was hella gay... saying you going to drink another dude. If I didn't know you get chicks, I'd think you were a booty disciple.

Michael: Who says I was joking 😈

You: You scare me sometimes.

Michael spammed laughing emojis.
James sighed.

They continued:

You: Anyway, enough of the gay shit. You study for the history test?

Michael: Don't need to, I got good knowledge 🤓

You: Sometimes I forget your family has a shit ton of books on history.

Michael: Guilty as charged 😌

James sighed. Talking to this man was not helping him study.

You: I'm heading out. Meet you at the usual spot.
Michael: Got ya 🙂

James packed his things, went downstairs, and prepared a scrumptious breakfast—Egg and toast. Because he was a broke student.

Tomorrow he'd have ramen. Beautiful cuisine.
He left the house, locking the door behind him.
Their usual spot was a street corner shaded by a tall oak tree next to a quiet suburban road—cracks in the pavement, morning dew on the grass, faint humming of cars in the distance.

He waited five minutes before he saw it.

A limousine.

A completely unnecessary, flaming-red, probably-five-figures-per-seat limousine. It glided down the street like it owned the neighborhood. His friend's family logo—because of course they had one—was printed on the side in elegant black ink.

From what James could recal, Michael family was in charge of the blood supply of this town.

A pale man in a pristine suit stepped out, opened the door.

"Young master, we have arrived."

Michael stepped out, hands in his pockets, wearing drip worth more than James' entire semester fees.

"Thank you, Sebastien. You may drop me here. I'll walk the rest of the way."

The butler bowed, reentered the limo, and drove off silently.

Now Michael's fit:

He wore a crisp white turtleneck, hugging his neck perfectly. Over it, a black oversized blazer draped in that relaxed-yet-expensive way. Button undone, turtleneck framed beautifully.

A thin silver necklace with a dark pendant caught the light. Of course Michael accessorized. And of course it looked good. The bastard.

His trousers were high-waisted and tapered, held by a slim black belt with a simple metal buckle. They fell straight with clean precision—like he could switch from "student" to "CEO" instantly.
Black on black, white in the center, silver accents—modern, chic, low-key lethal.

"Sup," Michael said, standing beside him.
"...If you have a limo, why do you insist on walking to school?"

"To get the broke boy experience. Can't have you being a peasant by yourself, wolf boy," Michael teased.

"Shut the hell up." James frowned, but when Michael got closer, he sniffed the air suddenly. His gaze sharpened. His eyes turned red.

"James... you didn't happen to bump into some wolf on your way here?"

"Oh yeah! Ran into a white wolf. She was so cute," James said, practically gushing, while Michael clearly despised every word.

"Fucking pest," he muttered.

"Jeez, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed," James sighed.

Michael smiled—though it carried something sharp, possessive.

"Well, as long as they didn't harm you, I'm fine."
As they walked toward the school—large brick buildings ahead, students milling about, morning chatter rising—James said,

"Had the weirdest dream ever. Saw like two 8-foot tall wolf monsters. Shit was crazy."

"Must have been hella of a dream then," Michael muttered, side-eyeing his friend while internally making some kind of silent decision.

"God of High School deserved a remake." This was James's opinion, delivered like a divine decree.
"I know right, shit was just so peak." Michael perked up instantly.

The guy loved every form of manga or manhwa imaginable; said they were fun, interesting, and way better than the boring-ass books he'd been reading since the dawn of time.

Anyway, as they arrived at the school—
a massive red-brick building with solar panels along the roof, ivy crawling up the science wing, and three floors of hallways that all smelled vaguely like disinfectant and teenage regret—

"Oh my god, he is here!"

"So cute..."

"Oh, he looked our way, my heart melted!"
James immediately ignored the wave of girls dissolving into mush the moment they spotted Michael.

For fuck's sake, Michael even gave them a flirty smile and James smelled something... something damp...

Yow. Did this guy seriously cause SOMEONE to ovulate with a glance? That was some bullshit. Some plot-induced bullshit.

But James wasn't jealous. Not even a little. Michael had always been this popular; his charms worked on everyone and their mother up to this point.

Everyone except James—mostly because he didn't give a single shit about that stuff.

Probably why they became friends in the first place.

He was like the only person in school unaffected by this bozo's aura.

Passing the Library—a tall glass-walled room with floating holo-catalog displays and students pretending to study—they walked toward the stairwell nearby, climbing to the second floor.

The student center was to the left, buzzing with noise, vending machines, and at least three people arguing over charger outlets, but they had to go straight for class.

They walked for a good distance down the long, sunlit hallway, their footsteps echoing off the polished tile. Eventually they reached the business wing of the school, with posters about economics, entrepreneurship clubs, and motivational quotes that nobody took seriously.

They kept going straight until the walls narrowed and the lighting dimmed slightly—
the Humanities Department, where every hallway felt like a museum.

Going down the stairwell at the end, they reached the History classroom—basically where their old college history class had been:

gray walls, big windows overlooking the quad, holographic boards lining the front, and chairs that were comfortable for exactly three minutes before causing spinal regret.

Checking his watch.

{8:50}

"We here on time," James announced as they walked in.

"Well of course we are," Michael replied lazily.

They greeted the teacher, then sat at their seats in the front row—right under where the projector liked to randomly flicker like a dying deity.

Roll call began.

"Abby Croft."

"Present."

A few more names.

"Michael Aurelius Vespermont."

"Present," the boy answered with maximum laziness.

"James Elijah Smith."

"I am here."

Then the teacher paused.

"This may be sudden, but we have a new student joining us for this semester."

The door slid open.

And a woman walked in.

She was tall for a girl, like 5'11. Her hair was white—no, closer to silver—the strands catching the classroom lights in a way that made her bangs curve like the shape of a crescent moon.

Her eyes were piercing silver; her skin smooth and pale like porcelain. She looked gentle... but something about her radiated the presence of a ferocious beast.

She wore a necklace too—some kind of wolf tooth. James took one look and decided he was not questioning whatever eldritch-ass backstory came with that.

"Introduce yourself," the teacher said.

She turned to the class, bowed slightly, and spoke calmly:

"I am Luna Silvers. Please take care of me."

The teacher nodded.

"Go sit over there."

And the "over there" happened to be right next to James and Michael.

Luna took her seat with this graceful, almost inhuman fluidity.

Michael, on the other hand, suddenly looked annoyed. James couldn't believe it.

"I am surprised. You usually try to woo everything with legs. Why not her?" James asked.

"Not my type," Michael muttered, his eyes flickering red for a split second—too fast for James to notice. But the tension in this bitch was high.

The teacher began the lecture.

"By the 14th century," he began, voice steady, "European city-states had long abandoned feudal stagnation. Scholars, artisans, and inventors collaborated freely across borders. Heliocentric models were standard in education by the year 1307, and mechanical automatons were being used in both agriculture and basic manufacturing."

He clicked a button, and a holo-projection flickered to life—a sprawling early-industrial city, steam engines hissing along the streets, transport pods zipping along magnetic rails.

"Notice how urban planning emphasizes both function and accessibility," he continued.

"Without centralized religious authority dictating morality or civic priorities, governments incentivized trade, technological innovation, and education. Entire regions became hubs of invention rather than battlegrounds for theological supremacy."

A student raised her hand. "Professor, what about medicine? Didn't cultural taboos ever slow it down?"

He shook his head. "No. Dissection and empirical research were never forbidden. Vaccination and antiseptics were widespread by the 1600s—decades before comparable developments in other worlds. Life expectancy soared, epidemics were treated with precision and speed, and cities became laboratories for progress."

The projection shifted to airships gliding over a coastal metropolis, their solar-thermal engines glowing.

"By the 1800s, aviation was common, and communication networks rivaled modern fiber-optic systems. Human curiosity wasn't restricted by political or religious dogma—only strengthened by competition, cooperation, and innovation."

A quiet murmur filled the classroom as students scribbled or tapped their implants.

Then the professor leaned forward slightly.

"And all of this—our infrastructure, our medicine, our machines—hinges on something fundamental: funding."

He paced slowly.

"Our society implemented a progressive taxation system centuries ago. The wealthiest citizens—those controlling trade, manufacturing, research—contribute significant portions of their resources directly into infrastructure and science. Not charity. Investment. And the returns have been enormous."(not willingly)

A holographic flying car appeared above his podium, hovering quietly.

"Public trials for flying cars have already begun in New Geneva and New Paris."

Students gasped and turned on their implants to record.

"And now, our greatest leap: the neural implant. A personal, fully integrated communication and computation system. Your mind replaces every device—phone, tablet, even computers. Banking, transport, education, medical monitoring—all instantaneous. You can send messages telepathically, access data in real time, or replay memories with perfect clarity."

He gave a knowing smile. "Security and ethics debates are ongoing, of course—but that's for philosophy class."

The projection changed again—this time to a lab filled with shimmering tanks and bioluminescent fluids.

"And finally: medicine. We are on the verge of curing cancer. By studying crocodile regenerative and immune properties, we've mapped how they resist tumors and repair damage rapidly. Using gene editing and synthetic viral vectors, we adapt these mechanisms for humans. A complete cure isn't decades away—it's months, possibly weeks, depending on trial outcomes."

He nodded toward the implant icons above students' heads.

"And the implants accelerate the process: real-time biomarker monitoring, immune regulation, and therapy optimization. Imagine a body that automatically adjusts, repairs, and protects itself... while your mind remains completely free to think, create, and innovate."

James, in fact, wasn't paying attention to shit the teacher was saying. Sure, he wrote it down, but something felt odd.

Time seemed... weirdly slow to him. His leg bounced under the desk as he began fidgeting, his usually brown eyes flickering to a sharp silver before snapping back to brown like faulty headlights.

He could hear every single breath taken in the room — the frustration in one sigh, the mucus in another. He heard everyone's heartbeat, smelled what they had for breakfast, how long it had been since their last shower.

Hell, he could even tell who was in the process of getting sick. His senses were tuned so damn high it felt like his brain was being microwaved.

He had no idea what to do with all that input. He squeezed his eyes shut, taking several deep breaths to calm himself down and slow his rapid heartbeat.

He tried to think of calming shit — wolves, puppies, whatever chill nature documentary nonsense he could force into his mind.

He needed something relaxing, not whatever the hell he was being forced to deal with.

"Yow bro, you okay?" Michael's voice cut through the noise, noticing his friend's constant fidgeting.

"I feel so stimulated, fucking headache killing me." James groaned, head in his hands.

Shit hurted like a motherfucker — and whenever the fuck it started, he didn't know. All he knew was that hearing everything and smelling everything at once was basically a sensory drive-by assault.

"Jeez, you look like a bitch who ovulating..." Michael muttered.

"Shut up." James was annoyed already. Seeing it, Michael slid something across the desk — an stress-relief toy.

A small ball. A weirdly wet small ball.

James, mercifully, didn't question why the hell it was damp.

He squeezed the hell out of that ball for the rest of class like his life depended on it. He felt nothing in his hand, even when he knew he was gripping it hard. At least, being Black, it hid the small rash forming across his palm.

Eventually class ended.

"Your homework will be posted later today. The Quiz will be up next week, don't forget to submit it," the teacher announced. The students nodded. Cool. Got it.

"You not wearing your necklace today?" Michael asked suddenly.

James looked down at his neck. Yeah — he had no necklace on. That was true.

"Hm, I forgot," he said calmly.

"Next period is in 3 hours, want to hop in the meantime?"

That was what they always did — play basketball or whatever. Teenagers in their prime and all that.

"Bet, I can finally beat your ass."

Michael didn't even blink at the threat. Man didn't believe it for a millisecond. Kid could play professionally if he wanted. He didn't think James could keep up with him even if he hit a growth spurt, ascended, and received divine basketball blessings.

As they got up and headed for the door, Luna was packing her items into her backpack. Her wolf-tooth necklace glowed faintly, drawing James' attention like a magnet.

He felt... attracted to it.

"Bro, stop staring." Michael smacked him lightly.
"I wasn't, I swear!"

Hard to defend that when he got caught in 4K staring at fine shyt.

"And I am the sweetest person around," Michael said, sarcasm practically dripping out of his mouth.

James ignored him and focused on other things — like escaping the room and pretending he wasn't just caught lacking.

Michael opened the classroom door.

"After you."

This guy teased 24/7.

The hallway of West Ridge High stretched before them — polished floors, banners for upcoming sports events, groups of students chatting, lockers slamming, the usual organized teenage chaos.

The building felt semi-modern but still had that faint smell of stale cafeteria tater tots.

After a sharp right turn, they walked together, taking about five seconds before needing to climb the stairs.

"So did you beat the final level of the game?" Michael asked, tilting his head.

"As if I would ever finish it without you." James rolled his eyes.

"Shit so hard as a werewolf in this bitch. Everyone has wolfbanes and silver weapons, I can barely do shit."

"Suck to suck," Michael said, proudly in his teasing prime.

"Well at least I don't burn in the sun," James shot back.

Michael smiled, lifting his hand.

"I bought a ring from the shop. I don't burn in the sun anymore."

He flashed the ring on his middle finger, old-looking, something James had never seen him without.

Dude wore it 24/7. Said it was a family heirloom.

"And werewolves don't have that shit, that's bullshit." James grumbled, then paused.

"Well, that's because we vamps are better," Michael teased.

"I feel like you hate werewolf?" James asked.
Michael shrugged.

"I don't like furries."

"Understandable," James said. Everyone had their taste — even if their taste was wrong.

They walked, talking about random teenage bullshit — LeBron debates, glazing athletes, dumb hypotheticals — while James ignored every girl fainting at the mere sight of Michael.

When they reached the basketball court, James opened the door.

"Oh, you didn't have to~," he teased.

"Shut it. Don't make me regret this," Michael laughed.

Inside, some guys were already playing.

"Oh my god, Michael is here!"

"Really!?"

"Girl look, he's like totally behind you—"

James, for the sake of his mental health, ignored all of them.

He took off his jacket, revealing a white shirt, stretching a bit.

"Oh, I almost forgot."

James reached into his pocket and handed Michael the stress ball.

Michael smiled and took it.

"Aw, you remember. How sweet."

James looked instantly annoyed.

"Don't make it gay."

"Too late."

Michael glanced at the ball. A small number was written on it: 300.

Seeing it, he let out a sigh of relief he didn't realize he'd been holding.

"Bro, you good? You look like you got the best of good news," James asked.

"I'm aight." Michael pocketed it.

He had already taken off his fancy coat and turtleneck, revealing a sleeveless shirt.

"You plan to play ball in those?" James asked, eyeing the pants.

"Oh I can. It's called cooking you plebs with style."

They approached the court. The players paused.
"So what are the teams like?" James asked.

"Shit, we were just running 3v3. No problem," Tyler said.

"So who gets the pleasure of having me on their team?" Michael asked, arrogance dripping from his voice.

"You'll be with us," George said.

"That leaves you with us," Tyler grumbled. He wasn't about to argue over a man.

Tyler bounced the ball — once, twice — and checked it in.

"Alright! Game on!"

And immediately — immediately — Michael went feral.

George barely passed the ball before Michael clapped it, bounced once, twice—
Tyler stepped up to guard him.

"You're not getting past me."
"Is that so?" Michael grinned, then launched into it.

Fake forward — Tyler stepped back.

Left dribble — Tyler reacted.

Then Michael hit him with a euro step so clean Tyler practically teleported onto the ground, falling flat on his ass.

Fadeaway.

Swish.

"Bucket," Michael smiled.

The girls lost their minds.

"Oh my GOOOD HE DIDN'T EVEN LOOK AT THE RIM—"

"MICHAEL PLEASE MY OVARIES—"

"I THINK I'M PREGNANT—"

James ignored it.
He hated it.

A lot.

Like damn, get off his dick.

He helped Tyler up.

"You good?"

"Yeah nah... we're getting cooked."

"That's your problem."

Another pass — another shot — swish.

"Guess you not the school star for no reason," George hyped.

Michael winked.

"Get off his dick," James called.

This level of meat riding was insane. Bro had a whole girlfriend and now he was bouncing on another man's meat.

Tyler finally snapped.

"James. Guard him."

"You deadass? Why me?"

"Because my ankles got drafted into the military last possession."

So James stepped in front of Michael.

Michael grinned like a villain.

"Well, well... you ready to get cooked, Jimmy?"
"Try me, bitch."

George passed Michael the ball.

A feint left — James slid right.

Spin turn — fadeaway — blocked.

"You feisty," Michael said, grinning. He realized he had to try harder now.

He settled into triple threat — knees bent, ball poised. His body loosened like he was about to dance.

He lunged forward like going for a drive — James was already blocking the court.

Halfway through, Michael paused, passed the ball between James' legs, and placed a hand on his back to stop him from turning.

James didn't push forward — he pulled away, throwing Michael off balance just long enough for a steal attempt.

But Michael wasn't an amateur — shoulder block, pivot, step away—

Then he zoomed back in front of James.
"Boo."

His eyes were slightly red now — stuck between red and blue.

Left — blocked.

Behind the back.

Closer to the rim.

Still blocked.

James' eyes turned a glowing golden yellow. His adrenaline spiked like crazy.

"You good..." Michael asked mid-dribble.

"Not good enough."

Michael jumped — high — like 50 inches easy.
James followed, veins bulging as he boosted upward.

"You're not scoring."

Michael's eyes widened — he didn't expect James to follow him into the air.

So he flicked the ball lightly over James.
Swish.

"You decent. I sweated a bit on that last play," Michael admitted, eyes more red now.
James didn't care — he was hungry. He wanted more.

He grabbed the ball, tossed it at Michael.

"Let's run it back."

Golden eyes glowing.

"Jeez man, you don't gotta be so hype. Guarding him is practically impossible," Tyler muttered.

"It's not. I can do it."

Michael caught the ball, smiling.

"So you want to get beaten?"

"Just check up."

Michael froze — for a moment he thought he saw a wolf in James' reflection.

If he didn't know better, he would think James was a werewolf.

But he wasn't — he didn't burn from the silver in the ball, the wolfsbane on the stress ball did nothing. (Yes — that's why the ball was wet.)

Anyway — they clashed.

The moment the exchange began, Michael went through every move he knew — feints, drives, behind-the-leg dribbles — and James stayed on him like a shadow that hated him.

Nothing worked.

Three whole minutes passed and Michael still couldn't get past him. His eyes turned fully crimson red with frustration.

At this point, everyone stopped playing.
Whenever someone got the ball and James guarded them, they felt like prey being eyed by a predator, and instantly panicked-passed to Michael.

James stole the pass mid-air.

"Got you."

He tore past George easily — one two steps — fake pass — ankle snatched.

Then only Michael was left.

James leapt — high — Michael leapt after him.
James knew Michael was stronger, so instead of competing mid-air, he placed one hand on Michael's shoulder to keep him from jumping higher—

And SLAMMED the ball into the net so hard the backboard shattered.

He landed, holding the rim in his hand like a trophy.

"LET'S FUCKING GO!"

His yellow eyes glowed like headlights on demon mode.

Michael sat on the floor, stunned.

He lost.

An aerial duel.

To James.

"Seems like I beat you after all," James grinned.

"You just got lucky."

Michael glanced at the broken rim.

"You know you gonna have to pay for that."

All James' excitement evaporated instantly.

"Holy shit, I don't have the bread. Fuck, fuck, fuck—"

Seeing him panic, Michael chuckled. Idiot hadn't evolved much.

"Jeez, why you so worried? It's only $2,500."
James stared.

He wanted to punch him.

"I am broke, you rich bastard. That's like a month of food gone."

"Wait, you weren't kidding? You survive off 2K?" Michael looked genuinely confused.

"...yeah..."

"Never knew you were that poor."

James ignored the jab.

"Don't worry. It's pocket change."

Right. Forgot his friend got 10K weekly pocket money.

And blew it weekly.

Meanwhile, in the stands, a silver-haired girl watched quietly.

Her wolf-tooth necklace glowed faintly, her eyes locked on James.

James felt someone staring.

He looked toward the bleachers — but only saw a white butterfly fluttering.

Hm.

He was definitely seeing shit.

"Bro, you good?" Michael asked, noticing his friend was staring off to the side instead of paying attention.

"I am aight."

James kept side-eyeing the hallway. He wondered if he was seeing shit — because butterflies shouldn't be inside a school, much less a white one.

"Jeez, ever since you saw that girl today, you've been off your game."

Michael squinted at him before a slow, smug smile curled across his lips.

"You got a crush, don't you?"

James stared at him as if that were the stupidest thing he'd heard all year.

"Shut up, dumbass."

"James fell in loooove~~!"

Michael sing-songed it loud enough for the universe to hear.

James wanted to punch him so bad, his hand twitched. But he controlled himself. Michael had a talent for crawling under his skin like a parasite with good cardio.

Not worth crashing out over it.

Across the gym, two guys froze mid-dribble.
"Did... he just...?"

"Score on Michael," Tyler finished George's sentence.

This was unheard of — a cosmic anomaly, like a solar eclipse or a teacher actually grading on time.

Because Michael dominated every sport at the school. Not because he was visibly stronger — though he was — but because the guy was a straight-up prodigy.

If he saw a technique once, he could replicate it perfectly, like he had photographic muscle memory. Freak shit.

Not that he played much anymore. He preferred flirting with girls and screwing around.

And somehow, instead of hanging with the popular crowd who idolized him like a deity dipped in cologne, he became friends with the wild guy.

Yes. James. The wild guy.

It had absolutely nothing to do with him being Black. It had everything to do with the fact that he could probably survive in the woods for forty years with nothing but a stick and some duct tape.

James's dad was a hunter — taught him how to track, stalk, set traps, kill, skin, cook, everything. Basically all the fatherly bonding before the man went to go get milk and never came back.

As for his mom... no one knew. She simply died, quiet and sad. Which left James in an apartment as an orphan until he was old enough, stable enough, and financially okay enough to inherit the family house. Legal shit.

None of that mattered now though.

What mattered was James ignoring the girls sending him death stares for scoring on their beloved Blue-eyes Greek Statue. He didn't care. Not his business.

He walked over to where they dumped their stuff, grabbed his jacket, and tied it around his waist like a dude about to free-climb a mountain.

"I am starving. You up for some burgers?"
James asked.

"Nah, we ate some like a week ago. I heard there's a new Starbucks opening nearby. Wanna check it out?"

And just like that, James lost all appetite.
"Oh, that shit?"

He looked betrayed that Michael even suggested such a place.

"Jeez, you act like their food is bad."

Michael blinked, genuinely confused.

"Well, you see my dear friend..." James inhaled like he was about to deliver a TED Talk.

"Everything in there is overpriced, their food has too many chemicals in it, it doesn't taste right to me. I'd rather eat from nature."

"So you like it raw..." Michael wiggled his eyebrows. "You should've said so."

He ducked instantly as James swung, the punch narrowly — and I do mean narrowly — missing his face.

James looked pissed. Michael just smiled like an angel with bad intentions.

"Hey, I don't judge. You like your food raw and natural, with no chemicals. It's okay."

He said it in the most "I'm such a supportive friend" tone ever.

"You are one annoying bastard."

Michael laughed, his blue eyes glinting strangely.
"Why are your teeth so sharp?" James suddenly asked.

Michael froze for a fraction of a second.

"What do you mean?"

James pointed straight at his mouth — more specifically, the canines.

"Your canines are like hella sharp. First time I noticed that."

Usually, Michael looked normal. Now, suddenly, those teeth looked... predatory.

Michael stared at James.

He shouldn't be able to see that. That was the entire point of using illusions — simple mind tricks that blinded normal humans to abnormal details.

He could have fangs out in the open and no one would register a thing.

'Guess changing my diet affected me more than I thought,' he thought before answering.

"Well, that's because I'm a vampire... raw~"

James blinked with the most "what the actual hell" expression known to man.

"You are weird sometimes."

He didn't believe a word. Vampires? As if that shit was real.

"But I am," Michael insisted. "Been trying to suck you dry for a while now."

"PAUSE!" James immediately cut him off.

"That is the gayest shit you said all week. You hit your gay limit. No more gay jokes."

"You're no fun."

The grown man actually pouted.

"I have no clue how you managed to pull all those girls acting this gay," James muttered, pushing the gym door open.

"A little bit of femininity never hurt anyone."

Michael shrugged. Gender roles meant nothing to him — centuries of life and an old-fashioned rich family tended to do that.

And honestly, he was trying to keep James away from his family. Last thing he needed was his father calling James the hard R.

They walked toward the exit.

But before they could step out, a classroom door opened.

Out stepped a man who looked... ordinary.

Ordinary enough that he shouldn't feel dangerous.

But James felt it — a prickle at the back of his neck. Instinct screaming.

The man stood about 5'10. Black hair combed neatly back, piercing brown eyes that seemed too observant, and an expression that was calm yet unreadable.

He wore a fitted charcoal-black suit, subtle pinstripes barely visible under the hallway lights, a crisp white shirt, and a dark tie tied with perfect symmetry.

In his right hand, he held a cane — black wood polished to a shine, engraved with swirling silver patterns and faint gold inlays that formed a crest near the handle.

The top of the cane was capped with a polished piece of moonstone that caught the hallway lights like frozen fire.

"Hello, Professor Merrow."

James straightened immediately, respectful.
This was his English teacher.

The man looked up, finally noticing them, and offered a gentle smile. James also noticed a thin cut on his neck and a single beauty mark beneath his left eye. Nice detail to remember.

"Oh, good afternoon, James," he said, voice smooth and refined. "You appear to be in quite the spirited mood."

"You could say so."

James' tone carried that polite, fake kindness you reserve for teachers because you don't feel like getting written up.

The professor adjusted his gloves — black leather, pristine — before continuing.

"You've been falling behind in your coursework," he said calmly but with a certain weight to his words. "If you don't make a concerted effort to catch up, you may find yourself unable to pass this class."

"I know, Professor Blackthorne."

James winced a little. He did not want to be lectured right now.

Professor Blackthorne's gaze shifted upward, landing on Michael.

"Ah... Michael. You're here as well."

"I am."

Michael's polite smile was deceptively flawless.
"I assume," Blackthorne said, lifting an eyebrow,

"that you are not leading James into one of your many extracurricular misadventures. He is not like you — multitasking is hardly one of his strengths."

"Me? I would never," Michael lied effortlessly.
"James is usually the one suggesting stuff. I just go along because he's my friend."

James shot him a death stare so sharp it could cleave atoms.

Michael's face said,

I'm sorry little one, but I must save myself.
"I see..."
Blackthorne tapped his cane lightly against the floor — a soft, precise sound.

Then he turned back to James.

"Do make sure you prepare adequately. Your next exam is in a week, and I expect to see substantial improvement."

James internally screamed.

He was so cooked.

"I will."

As the professor stepped closer, Michael subtly stepped back. James blinked, confused.

"Is something the matter?"

The professor asked, tilting his head slightly. One hand rested on the cane, thumb brushing the gold engraving.

"Your jewelry is blinding me!"

James yelped, shielding his eyes dramatically.
Blackthorne paused, then looked down.
His silver cross necklace had slipped out of his shirt, gleaming brightly.

"My apologies."

He tucked it away with practiced grace.

"I never knew you were religious, Mister Blackthorne."

"My family was involved in the Wesleyan movement," he replied softly.

James froze.

The what movement now?

"The Wesley movement," Blackthorne repeated, a tiny smile forming. "We discussed it in class today."

Shit.

James was absolutely cooked.

"Oh yes, totally. I totally get it."

He glanced at his nonexistent watch.

"Wow, would you look at the time — it's late. Wouldn't want to keep you busy."

And he immediately started speed-walking away like his life depended on it.

The professor watched him leave before turning to Michael.

"Aren't you going to follow after your friend?"
Michael blinked, snapping out of whatever trance he'd fallen into.

"Oh. Yeah, I should. Have a nice day, Mister Blackthorne."

The man would watch them live.

His brow furrowing a bit as he watched Michael.

His gaze would go to his watch, oh well, he had a teacher meeting to attend to.

When Michael finally caught up to his buddy, he said,

"Wait up."

"No. He scare me."

James was in no mood to deal with his teacher.

"I know that, but still — wait up."

James decided to wait because... why not.

"Never thought you'd be scared of a teacher," Michael said, both hands behind his head like he was sunbathing.

"Who wouldn't be? Heard he used to be part of the military or something."

James did not want to find out anything about that man.

The man's silver cross was weird and that was it.
"Let's go get Starbuck!?"

James opened his mouth to object, but Michael beat him to it.

"I will be paying."

"...Good to know..."

Suddenly the idea of going to that place wasn't so bad.

"Though I'd rather not rely on you financially."

James looked at the sky like it owed him money.
"Probably will pick up a 9 to 5... unfortunately."
He sighed. He didn't want to, but he needed the bread.

"Hey, you don't need to worry about money. I am here. Wouldn't mind being your sugar daddy."

"For the last time, stop with the gay shit."

James looked annoyed.

"Well, to be honest, till this day kept men do exist, so I'm not wrong."

James sighed. There was no winning with this man.

Once Michael made up his mind, that was it.
So he accepted his fate.

"Fine... Starbuck it is."

"Yay."

"Grown ass man."

The two walked for a solid thirty minutes. They could've taken a bus... or, you know, had Michael's driver drop them off.

But James wanted to walk — partly to clear his head, partly because he didn't like relying on people.

On the way, Michael hit him with a "would you rather."

"Would you rather apologize for slavery every time you buy clothes with cotton in it, or say 'I am not a threat to you' to any woman you're speaking to?"

James pondered.

"Well I am black. First option is easy... second option would land me in jail."

"And why do you think so?"

James stared at him deadpan.

"I am 6 feet tall, muscular, wild hair and eyes... and did I mention I am black? All it take is one white girl to cry and I am cooked."

Michael nodded.

"Guess that one was too easy."

"That deadass the only thing you got from that!?"
Michael raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah. What else was there to get?"

James sighed.

As they pushed open the door, James smelled it instantly.

The place smelled like overpriced coffee, burnt sugar, and the crushed dreams of college dropouts.

Also: gentrification.

The kind you could feel in your kneecaps.

And on top of that?

Nothing in here smelled natural. At all.
His senses went haywire.

He could smell every spilled latte from the past week, every perfume molecule drifting off every customer, every artificial flavoring in every drink.

He could hear every whispered conversation crystal clear whether he wanted to or not.

"Bro, did you see her new nails? She said they were $180—"

"I swear if my manager schedules me a morning shift again I'm quitting—"

"Babe stop, you literally only post thirst traps—"

"Mom I told you crypto is coming back—"

James nearly gagged.

Michael inhaled deeply like he walked into a spa.
"Ahhh... the aroma of middle-class delusion."

James almost puked. The synthetic sweetness was so strong it felt like it was trying to crawl inside his lungs.

He gagged again.

"Stop looking like you gagging on dick. Let's order."

James snapped back to reality instantly.
Did this man just—

Michael acted like he said nothing.

"Why you giving me the dead glare? I just told you to stop gagging."

"Sure..."

He absolutely did not believe that nonsense.
They approached the counter.

And there she was.

Aaliyah Torres.

The barista with curly hair, winged eyeliner sharp enough to perform surgery, and the most obvious crush on Michael mankind had ever documented.
Blonde hair.

Blue eyes.

Captain of the cheerleaders.

Peak bimbo energy — big tits, bright smile, small brain.

The type of girl who hung around jocks or pretended to carry group projects.

Her eyes lit up the second she saw him.

"Oh—my GOD. Michael?!" she squealed.
James physically winced.

Here we go again.

Michael smiled warmly — handsome bastard.
"Hey, Aaliyah. Nice to see you again."

Aaliyah nearly combusted like a cheap firework.
James muttered under his breath,
"Lord give me strength."

Michael actually cringed a bit at that.
More like recoiling from the religious wording — good to know.

"So, what can I get for you?" she asked —
but she was only looking at Michael.

James was essentially a coat rack.

Michael tapped his chin dramatically.

"Well... what do you recommend?"

He hit her with the eyes.

Blue. Shiny. Illegal.

Aaliyah blushed so hard her freckles shook.
"O-oh! Well, I think you'd love our new caramel-choco-sweet-cream-cold-brew-deluxe—"

"I'll take it," Michael said immediately.
James stared.

He didn't even know what the hell that was.
Then Aaliyah looked at him — enthusiasm dropping like a stone.

"And for you?"

"I want the cheapest thing that won't put me in the hospital."

"...Water?" she offered.

James frowned. "Something edible, please."
She sighed.

"Fine. Plain black coffee?"

"Do I look like I hate myself?"

Michael snorted.

James finally settled on,

"Give me a sausage, egg, and cheddar sandwich."
Aaliyah typed it in like the keys owed her money.

"That'll be $18.94."

James choked.

"FOR WHAT?!"

Michael placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"It's okay. Think of it as an investment."

"In what? Bankruptcy?"

They moved to the pick-up counter.

James crossed his arms, staring at Michael like he committed a war crime.

"Bro... can you go ONE hour... no, thirty minutes... without pulling girls?"

Michael gasped dramatically.
"James! I don't 'pull' girls. I simply exist. They pull themselves."

"That makes it worse."

Michael shrugged, sipping his complimentary water — given free by Aaliyah — while James had to pay for breathing.

"It's not my fault I'm charming," Michael said.
"And you could flirt too if you tried."

"I flirt fine."

"No. You threaten people."

"That's called charisma."

Michael nearly cackled.

Aaliyah returned with their drinks and food.
She leaned so close to Michael that James swore HR was about to spawn out of thin air.

"Here you go, Michael..."

She said his name like it was a prayer.
Then she slid James' sandwich across the counter like she was launching a hockey puck.

"Yours."

James grabbed it before he caught a charge.
"Thanks," Michael replied warmly.

Aaliyah's knees nearly buckled.

James grabbed his friend by the shirt and dragged him away.

"Bro. Stop. You're causing problems."
Michael took a sip of his drink, humming contently.

"Mmm. Delicious."
"Dude, that thing looks like diabetes in a cup."

Michael shrugged. "The sweeter the better."

James groaned as they found a table near the window.

He took a bite of his sandwich.

"Okay... the egg's a bit raw, but it decent."

Michael lifted his monstrous drink.

"Told you Starbucks isn't that bad."
James glared.

"Don't push it."
They sat in a kind-of comfortable silence — well, as comfortable as James could be in a Starbucks — until Michael broke it.

"Sooo... about that butterfly girl—"

"Drop it."

Michael grinned.

"Never."

James stuffed more sandwich in his mouth just to stop himself from saying something that'd get them banned.

Michael leaned back, enjoying every second of it.
James thought about what to do later.
His senses were telling him he should be doing something — something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Eventually he would...

just not now.
Currently, he had other things to worry about.
Like his homework.
Or something like that.

A/N did I do a decent job at showcasing how overstimulated he is here right now.

After eating, flirting, and saying arguably the gayest sentences known to the human species, James seriously considered walking into traffic.
Unfortunately, they still had another class.
Math.

The universal enemy of peace.
He slumped into his seat, dropping his bag to the floor like it offended him personally.

This was not the move.

Who the hell goes from overpriced Starbucks sugar bombs straight into hearing about the square root of some bullshit? Not even Navy SEALs trained for this.

James rubbed his temples.

The problem wasn't even the math.

No.

The problem was him.

Every sense he had — every sight, sound, smell — felt like somebody went into his brain settings and changed everything from "Normal Human Being" to "Batman With Paranoia Maxed Out."

He didn't just hear the teacher's voice.

He heard the teacher's heartbeat, that rhythmic thump-thump hiding under his words like he was a walking meat metronome.

He could hear Courtney whispering in the back row.

He could hear Jacob tapping his pen against his notebook like he was trying to summon a demon.
He could hear the janitor two hallways down pushing a mop across tile.

He wasn't paying attention to one thing — he was paying attention to everything.
Simultaneously.

The human brain isn't built for that. Humans don't multitask — not actually. They pause one thing and rapidly switch to another, like juggling tabs on a computer.

But James?

James was running 400 tabs at once with no lag.
That wasn't normal.

And the smell?

Don't even get him started.

He could smell everyone's lunch.

He could smell the lemon cleaner on the desks.
He could smell Michael's cologne from three rows over.

He could smell anxiety and nerves and gum and sweat and—

He gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles pale.
What the hell was happening to him?

Why could he track every single person in the classroom like a damn predator?

Why could he hear blood moving through someone's veins?

Why...

James's heartbeat hammered in his ears.
At first, he thought it was just stress — math class, the one place joy went to die, could do that to anyone.

But then his vision blurred around the edges, sharpening in the middle, and—
His eyes glowed.

Not metaphorically.

Not poetically.

Actually glowed.

A deep molten gold, like someone shoved a dying sun into his skull.

His entire body felt overstimulated as hell — like he'd just been born again but got shoved into the world unwrapped and screaming. Every smell hit him. Every whisper.

Every scrape of pencil. Every heartbeat in the room punched into his senses like someone cranked reality to max volume without warning.
He gritted his teeth.

Bad idea — his canines were getting sharper.
His nails clawed into the metal desk, digging like he was trying to anchor himself to reality.
Too late.

CRACK.

The sound sliced across the room.

Mr. Julian Trent — a man powered by coffee and spite — slowly turned around like an animatronic waking from sleep mode. His gaze scanned the students... then landed on James.

"Mister James," he said, voice flat with exhausted irritation, "do you have a problem?"
James said nothing.

Mr. Trent's eyes drifted down.

The desk wasn't broken, but it was absolutely bent. Metal warped under James's hands like tinfoil.

The teacher blinked once. Twice.

"I don't suppose you were focusing so hard on my lesson," he said dryly, "that you failed to notice you broke the desk, did you now, Mister Smith?"

James inhaled sharply and forced every nerve in his body to settle. The glow faded. His breathing steadied. Nails retracted. Jaw unclenched.
"Sorry," he said, rubbing the back of his neck

like a guilty toddler. "I'm just frustrated I don't get this."

Mr. Trent sipped his coffee — his lifeblood — with the tired resignation of a man who accepted his fate long ago.

"I see... If you feel overwhelmed, you can always check the syllabus. I offer after-hours help. We can review whatever you're struggling with."
The kindness was real.

The exhaustion was real.

The "but stop breaking my furniture" was extremely real.

"That would mean the world to me," James replied with a sheepish smile.

"But please," the teacher added, "do try not to destroy any more desks."

"Yes, sir," James muttered, trying to look innocent — which was hard when you were seconds from accidentally ripping the desk in half like a coupon.

Across the room, Michael watched carefully.
Too carefully.

He sniffed the air subtly, nose twitching in a way that would've been weird on anyone else. Something was wrong — he could tell instantly. James smelled like James.

Wild, raw, earthy. His usual scent buried under a cloud of cheap Axe body spray. But something else was missing.
Something important.

Something dangerous.

Michael forcibly stayed still, even though his whole body buzzed like he'd drunk jet fuel. His senses were flaring — reacting.

And James?

James was barely keeping it together.
He dug in his pocket, grabbed gum, shoved a stick in his mouth.

Chewing helped — something to focus on besides the thousand sensations shredding through him.

His bones felt like they were rearranging.
His muscles like they were tearing and re-stitching stronger.

But he needed to stay.
He needed to not freak out.

He needed to pass this class before something even worse happened.

As soon as the bell rang?

James bolted.
Out the door. Down the hall. Gone.

Michael didn't even get to say "bro—" before James was a full-speed statistic sprinting for freedom.

Mr. Trent watched him leave with the look of a man who was definitely not paid enough for this.
Michael remained seated, thinking.

James was odd today. Off. Wrong.

The signs were obvious — to him.

The boy was in the middle of turning.

But that made no sense. None.

Because James didn't smell odd.

Not even a little.

Not even a fraction.

He just smelled like... James.

Unrestrained. Wild. Untamed.

For a human, that would be insane.

For a supernatural? Unheard of.

Still, Michael had done his job. He'd claimed this city. No creature with half a brain would dare step inside its borders.

Well... except one history teacher who would absolutely whoop his ass if he stepped out of line.
Michael sighed.

If he were a good son, he'd report this to his father.

But fuck that man.

He tapped a girl's shoulder.

"Courtney, sweetheart," he said with his most innocent smile, "what's the moon phase tonight?"
Courtney melted instantly — one of those crystal girls. Astrology, moon phases, rising sun signs... something ending in "-ology."

"Oh— it's going to be a full moon tonight," she said, blushing.

A perfect smile spread across Michael's face.
Full moon.

Yeah.

He needed to keep an eye on James tonight.
Last thing he wanted was his best friend becoming a headline.

POV CHANGE — JAMES

James walked home the only way he could handle — through the woods.

The city was too loud.

Too bright.

Too much.

The forest?

Quiet.

Safe.

Calm.

He found the familiar tree — the same one where he'd saved the white wolf — and collapsed against it. His entire body screamed in pain, but he shut his eyes and waited for the agony to burn itself out.

He didn't even realize how fast he fell asleep.
Hours passed.

He didn't move.

Didn't twitch.

Didn't dream.

Just lay there until exactly midnight.
When he woke, the pain was gone.

His body felt normal.

Well... normal for him.

His brain had adapted to the sensory overload. He could still feel everything — smell, sound, heartbeats, wind, insects miles away — but now it didn't crush him.

His superhuman edge had always been there.
But this?

This was new.

And the pain?

Never again.

He stretched his fingers, sighed, leaned back against the bark.

Then he looked up.

The moon hung directly above the treeline — glowing, full, impossibly bright. A perfect silver disc painting the world in cool light.
Beautiful.

Calm.

Peaceful.

Enough to make his chest loosen.

"Damn... that's pretty," he muttered.
He pulled out his phone, aimed upward, snapped a picture.

"This is going straight to favorites," he said to absolutely no one.

He yawned, shut the screen.

"Well... time to go hom—"

And then—

Everything went black.

POV CHANGE

James woke up feeling sore — like he'd gotten the shit beaten out of him. He slowly tried to get up, but fuck, he was sore.

"What did I do last night?" he groaned, every muscle screaming.

"Yow, why do I have on different clothes?"
He blinked at his outfit — definitely not what he wore before.

He tried thinking.

"Think... did I change clothes when I came back?"

Nothing concrete came to mind.

Speaking of getting back home...

He had no clue how the fuck he got back.
Last thing he remembered, he was in the forest, chilling, and then—

He woke up home.

His head hurt.

He felt annoyed.

Fuck.

He went to the bathroom, did his morning routine, came out, and changed into black pants and a sleeveless shirt — since for some odd reason, even though it was cold outside, he felt warm.

"So this is what happen when I don't wear this necklace."

He looked at the gift left behind by his parents — a gold necklace.

It was quite pretty.

He placed it around his neck.

"There, you safe," he said softly, as if the necklace was alive.

He checked his phone — Michael had texted him.

<Got home yet?> — 9:50 PM

<If you don't answer within the next hour, I would assume you are getting diddled...without me 😔> — 11:40 PM

<Sorry for late reply, I slept like a motherfucker> — 8:50 AM

<You cheater 😠> — 8:52 AM

<The only thing I cheat on are tests, the hell you on?> — 8:52 AM

<What did they have that I didn't? Why were they allowed to do that when I am called gay for even trying? Are you even my bro 😔> — 8:52 AM

James finally read the messages...

<I DID NOT GET MY BUNS TAKEN> — 8:53 AM

<Damn, they must have gotten your 🍑 good if they have you texting in all caps> — 8:53 AM

<Sometimes I forget you can be quite a piece of shit> — 8:54 AM

<I know, I am the coolest guy around 😎> — 8:55 AM

<Is it a bad time to say I woke up sore> — 8:55 AM

{Michael is typing...}

<I swear to God if it anything weird I am beating your ass when I see you> — 8:56 AM

<Nah, me, I would never 😈😈😈😈😈> — 8:56 AM

<You didn't even bother deleting the emojis> — 8:56 AM

<I don't know what you talking about 🥺> — 8:57 AM

He quickly edited the message to remove the emojis.

<On an unrelated question, did they have you leg up or ass up biting the pillow 🤔> — 8:57 AM

<I DID NOT GET FUCKED OKAY> — 8:58 AM

<I get that but hypothetically, if you were to get....> — 8:58 AM

And then—

Standing there was Luna — in all her 5'10" unsettling silver-moon beauty — her presence almost too sharp for the quiet room.

Her long, liquid-smooth silver hair fell past her waist like strands of pale moonlight that couldn't decide whether to glow or slice.

It framed her face in soft waves, ends drifting in invisible currents. Light clung to her collarbone, giving her that ethereal, almost-not-human shimmer.

Her eyes, piercing glacial silver, held that usual mix she was famous for: a calm, quietly judgmental softness... and the "I know something you don't, idiot" sharpness beneath it.

Her frame was deceptively delicate, tall and willowy, the kind of grace that looked like she could walk through a battlefield without getting a single drop of blood on her.

Her clothes were simple — a long, form-fitting shirt hanging loose over her hips, the fabric stretched in a few places from strain or movement.

But her arms and hands were scattered with dark bruises — the kind you get from a lot, and he repeated mentally, a lot of fucking fighting.

Her nails were slightly longer than normal, sharp in that subtle "could absolutely gut someone without trying" way.

Even standing still, she was a contradiction:
Beautiful, dangerous, gentle, lethal — and absolutely annoyed that James was making this her problem.

She tilted her head, silver hair sliding over her shoulder like water.

"You finally awake," she repeated, voice cool and melodic but carrying that familiar edge.
"What are you doing in my house?" was the first thing out of his mouth. He didn't remember inviting her, and even though she was 100% his type of woman, he'd rather know how the hell she got inside before anything else.

"I brought you here," she said casually, walking past him like he wasn't even there.

"You did?"

Confusion plastered across his face.

She went straight into his bathroom. The water turned on.

Hold up.

He paid the bills in this bitch.

"Do you know how much that bill cost?" he snapped. Maybe he was cheap, but every fucking quarter counted.

"Calm down, I am simply taking a shower," she said like this was normal human behavior.

"And you're going to let me—"

His mouth opened to argue but... no sound came out.

As if some magical force was forcing his ass to listen to her.

When she finished showering, she stepped out wrapped in towels.

He immediately looked away.

"May I please ask, what are you doing in my house?"

He didn't remember being buddy-buddy with her, so what the fuck was happening?

"Hm, so you did forget."

She looked at him like she could tell if he was lying.

"Well I wouldn't be asking if I knew, now would I?"

He was getting annoyed. Yet when he turned back and saw the towel, he turned around again, cheeks flaming red.

"A bad attitude and a virgin to boot. I can see why you live alone now," she said with a perfectly blank stare, as if stating an objective fact.

James was annoyed beyond belief — but before he could spit fire, she continued:

"At first I thought it did not work. Maybe I did not infect you. But fate was ugly."

He blinked, confused.

"Remember in the forest, where you were bitten by a white wolf?"

He raised a brow. "Yeah... that was like 2 days ago. I was then attacked by like a 9-foot-tall monster."

"So you remember all that," she said thoughtfully.

"I mean duh, who wouldn't?"

He looked at her like she was the idiot.
"So my will domination didn't work..." she muttered.

"Your will what?"

He was lost.

"Shush, new one."

And just like that — he couldn't speak.
What the fuck was that control she had over him?
"I am sure someone even as dense as you has noticed the changes in your body."

She walked to his closet, rifling through clothes like this was her house.

"Your senses being overwhelmed... your strength increasing... your stamina increasing... and you growing resistance to the supernatural."

She pinned him with a cold gaze.

Thinking back... yeah. He'd noticed.

Didn't mean he had changed, though.

"You are dense."

His brow furrowed.

How the fuck did she read his mind—

(It's pack telepathy. Since I have turned you, I can hear and speak to you through your mind. Think of it like a link.)

Her voice echoed inside his skull, even though her lips didn't move — except to yawn.

He freaked out internally.

What the fuck was happening to him?

"You are no longer human," she said lazily, biting into an apple she'd just taken from his counter.
"You are a werewolf now."

She said it like it was a weather report.