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.