Chapter Text
The heavy oak door, carved with the phases of the moon, didn’t survive the impact.
Minho’s kick sent it flying inward with a splintering crack that would have gotten any other wolf ejected from the premises, or worse.
The fury coiling in his gut was a rare, unified front. Usually, it was just his inner wolf—a constant, simmering rage he had to manage. But today, Minho himself was just as angry. He was annoyed to feel the stupid wolf preen in excitement at their shared emotion, as if this were a game.
He strode into the principal’s office, the scent of old parchment and cold stone doing nothing to cool their shared temper. His gaze landed instantly on the man seated behind the great desk of dark, twisting wood that seemed to have grown roots into the floor.
Principal Bang Chan did not look up.
He was writing in a large, leather-bound logbook, the only sounds the soft crackle from the grand fireplace and the steady scratch of his black-feathered quill. A delicate silver chain connected the arms of his round spectacles.
Minho’s own hands, gloved in leather gloves, tucked into the pockets of his worn blazer, still felt conspicuously bare as he stepped onto the thick pelt of a great white wolf that served as a rug. The wolf within paced, a restless shadow mirroring his steps.
“You said my credentials were impeccable,” Minho began, his voice cutting through the quiet. “You said the committee valued modern academic achievement. You said if I presented my university record, my thesis on cross-pack diplomacy… you said it would be enough.”
The scratching of the quill continued. Uninterrupted.
“I have done everything asked of me,” Minho continued, heat seeping into his tone, feeding the wolf’s agitation. “I have jumped through every hoop. I am more qualified than any other applicant. So tell me, what is the real deficiency? Is it just because I’m a loner?”
The quill stopped.
The silence that followed was heavier than before. Slowly, The Principal set the feathered pen down. He looked up, and his expression was what Minho had feared: not anger, but a deep, weary sympathy.
“Lee Minho ssi,” the grey skinned wolf began, his voice laden with a regret that felt like a physical weight. “The council’s traditions for the Den Guardian role are... ancient. They believe the magic that nurtures the youngest of our kind is a communal force. Your qualifications are not in dispute. But your solitary nature is seen as a dissonance in that specific environment.”
Minho’s gaze dropped to the principal’s hands, to those stark, beautiful paw prints that spoke of a birthright, of a place in the world so fundamental it was inked into the soul. A corrosive mix of envy and shame twisted in his gut. He curled his own gloved fingers into his palms, smothering the feeling.
“So my work means nothing. My entire life’s effort is worthless because I lack a pack?!” The words were a low snarl, his control fraying. He took a step forward, the heat of his anger a palpable force in the room. The wolf inside him was right there, just beneath his skin, urging him to make them understand.
“It is not worthless,” Chan countered, his voice firming but still infuriatingly calm. “And there are other positions. The high school needs a new combat instructor. You'd be perfect, Minho. I could appoint you myself—”
"I don’t want to lecture teenagers on dead pack politics," Minho interjected, the exasperation sharp in his voice. "I want to teach the pups. I want to show them their first howl matters." It was the most vulnerable thing he had said aloud in years, and it hung in the air between them, raw and exposed. The inner wolf stilled, unnerved by the sudden openness.
Bang Chan’s expression was unreadable for a long moment. The fire popped in the hearth. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and even with informality.
"Minho, a first howl is not a solo. It is a call, and it requires an echo. It requires the lived experience of a pack. Your documents… your entire history… states you have been fundamentally alone since childhood. In the eyes of the council, that isn't just a detail. It is an unstable red flag."
"But I have proven my stability." Minho shot back, the heat returning to his voice. "I've taken the mandatory mental examinations every year since I presented. I scored in the top percentile for control and cognitive function. What else could I possibly need to prove?"
Chan didn't flinch. His calm was a wall. "You have proven you are not a danger. But the council needs to be convinced you are a benefit. There is a difference." He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes holding Minho's. "And you know exactly what you need to do to prove that."
Minho and his wolf both froze. A cold dread, familiar and loathsome, trickled down his spine. He opened his mouth to deny it, to refuse outright, but Chan spoke over him, his voice cutting through the brewing protest with the finality of a judge's gavel.
"A Certificate of Social-Emotional Competence," Chan stated, the title sounding like a verdict. "From a council-certified therapist. It must attest that you and your wolf are not just stable, but synergized and suited for the high-sensitivity environment of the nursery."
"No,” Minho said, his voice deliberately calm to counteract the sudden, primal urge to flip the massive desk. “I’m fine. I don’t need therapy. Me and my wolf have an understanding.”
“An understanding?” Chan’s eyebrow arched slightly. “Minho, you still wear scent blockers. Every day.”
The restless energy spiked into a flash of heat, a surge of wild pride that wanted its presence known. Minho forced his breathing to stay even. “It’s fashion,” he retorted smoothly, and immediately felt his inner wolf's reaction—a sharp, mocking ripple of laughter that echoed in his bones.
The bastard was laughing at him!
One day, he will kill his wolf, he vowed passionately.
Meanwhile Principal Bang Chan didn't look impressed. “And the mandatory monthly wellness check-ins you’ve ‘forgotten’ for the past six months?”
"I’ve been busy,” Minho clipped out, his wolf's guffaws jeering making his skin feel too tight. "applying for jobs. As you know.”
Chan leaned back, the stark black paw prints on his hands a silent testament to generations of pack leadership. His gaze held Minho’s, not with accusation, but with a heavy, unshakeable certainty.
“A wolf at peace doesn’t need to hide its own scent, Minho. It doesn’t see every outstretched hand as a threat. These aren't choices; they are symptoms. And the council will not ignore the symptoms, no matter how brilliant the mind that houses them. The certificate isn't my preference. It's the only medicine they recognize.”
"The narrative is bullshit!" Minho snapped, a ripple of aggressive energy making him shift in his seat. His wolf echoed the sentiment with a low growl that vibrated in his chest. "A piece of paper from some stranger who'll judge my life in fifty minutes because of the very system that failed me? You want me to perform sanity for a council-approved stamp? It's a farce."
"System or not, it is the only way to prove to the council that their fears are unfounded," Chan countered, his voice hardening, though his composure never broke. "Your file is a list of red flags for them, Minho. The solitude, the blockers, the missed check-ins. This certificate is your chance to officially overwrite that narrative."
"But it will prove absolutely nothing."
It would just put a pretty frame around a picture they had already decided was ugly. Because it wouldn't change what he was.
A lone wolf.
Bang Chan seemed to catch the melancholic reference, his expression softening into a genuine, sad smile that Minho hated more than any glare.
"It proves everything to them," the other wolf said, his voice dropping into something quiet and unbearably gentle. The softness was a weapon, and it disarmed Minho more effectively than any shout. "It is a necessary benchmark because the consequences of being wrong are unthinkable. You, of all people, know what happens." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the space between them. "You know what prolonged isolation can do to a lone wolf."
Minho’s breath hitched. The fight in him stuttered, derailed by the deliberate, brutal precision of the wolf's words.
A memory, sharp and cold as shrapnel, tore through him: the hollow, milky eyes of a feral wolf from his youth, a muzzle of cold iron chains locking its jaw shut as a containment unit dragged it away. The desperate, mindless snarls that were no longer language. The ghost that haunted his darkest nights.
The image was a bucket of ice water on the fire of his anger.
The fight drained out of him, leaving a cold, hard truth in its place. The wolf inside, sensing the shift, let out a final, internal ripple of discontent before settling into a wary stillness. They were cornered. Not just by the council, but by the terrifying specter of what they could become.
His gloved hands, which had been curled into fists so tight the leather strained, finally went slack. The tension bled out of his fingers in a slow, defeated unfurling, a silent white flag. He stared at them, these shielded, useless things.
All for a certificate. A piece of paper that would dissect his loneliness, judge the walls he’d built to survive, and decide if he was worthy of the one thing he wanted.
So all he had to do was get a piece of paper to prove he wasn't a monster? Fine.
“Fine,” he bit out, the word tasting nothing like victory, just vomit. He turned on his heel, his determination a cold, hard knot in his stomach. How hard could it be?
☘️｡:ﾟ✿ﾟ:｡🐺
The hardest thing in the world, it turned out, was sweeping french fry crumbs off a linoleum floor while your dreams circled the drain.
Minho leaned heavily on his broom in the middle of the nearly empty 'Howling Moon Diner.' The lone A/C unit sputtered, ejecting a gust of warm, damp air that did little to cut through the scent of old grease.
The evening shift was the worst. The quiet after the storm was somehow more deafening. Just an hour ago, the diner—strategically and unfortunately located next to the high school den—had been packed with hungry pups, the air thick with the cacophony of cracking voices and shared fries. Which, of course, meant this mess was now his to clean.
One of them, a lanky beta with more bravado than sense, had started a howling contest. The sound—a reedy, off-key screech—was a needle in Minho's brain. It was the same sound he'd imagined when Principal Bang Chan had suggested he teach there. "The high school needs a new combat instructor. You'd be perfect, Minho."
He'd rejected the offer on the spot. Not out of shame, but from a cold, certain clarity. He understood their biology, the mechanics of a shift. But the desperate bids for attention, the volatile moods? It was a language he'd never learned. His own youth had been a silent, strategic retreat. He couldn't guide them through a storm he had only ever endured.
Now, his own wolf, usually a snarling critic, had been useless. It just watched, detached, as the kid's friends joined in, a chorus of yips that was just noise for the sake of being loud. The headache that bloomed behind his eyes was born from the sheer, grating pointlessness of it all.
He was so lost in the memory of their noise that he almost didn't hear the real one cutting through it.
"Wow. You look like you're mentally composing your own obituary."
Minho lifted his head.
Hyunjin stood by the counter, having slipped in unnoticed. As a beta, his presence was softer, but he carried himself with the effortless grace of someone who could have been, and technically once was, a model.
A part of Minho, the nasty, cornered part, wanted to snarl. He didn't, obviously. "I was thinking about killing you, actually. It seemed more productive than this." He gestured vaguely with his gloved hands at the sticky floor.
"Damn," Hyunjin quipped, a smirk playing on his lips. "Last I checked, you were only into choking, not murder."
He leaned his elbows on the counter, eyes glinting with mischief. "So, the daddy principal’s office visit went splendid, I assume?"
Minho finally looked at him, a slow, dead-eyed turn of his head.
"Oh, it went great. 'Daddy Chan' was so impressed with my résumé he offered me a job as a professional doorstop. Apparently, my unique talent for eating lunch alone sealed the deal."
Hyunjin winced. "Shit. The solitary thing again?"
"Shocker, I know." Minho said sarcastically before he went back to staring at the floor. "Turns out 'raised by wolves' is only a charming backstory if you were actually raised by a 'pack' "
"Okay, but what about the therapists? You were making calls."
"I was. It was an enlightening experience." Minho began counting on his fingers. "One said my 'aura of feral resentment' would disrupt their zen garden. Another asked if I'd considered group therapy. A third one just hung up. I think my profile picture scared him."
Hyunjin bit his lip, the scent of his suppressed amusement a light, citrusy note in the air. "So, a resounding success."
"A triumph. I'm thinking of framing my phone bill."
As much as Minho loved threatening the guy, he and his wolf both felt a small, reluctant spark of pride when Hyunjin laughed. Hearing that laugh, sharp and bright in the otherwise dull hum of the diner, made something deep inside him settle, just for a moment.
Of course, he’d never admit that out loud.
There was a pause in the air that felt too comfortable.
Then Hyunjin slumped forward on the counter, a dramatic collapse that made the cutlery rattle. The movement caused the sleeve of his designer jacket to ride up, revealing the elegant, silver-inked paw print on the inside of his wrist. It was stylized, almost like a brand logo, perfectly suited to the beta. His hands stretched out across the counter, long-fingered and clean, the kind of hands made to hold champagne glasses, not diner menus.
Minho’s gaze lingered a second too long, at the wrist mark, gleaming faintly under the flickering diner light, and felt that familiar hollow twinge rise when he looked at his own gloved hands before he forced it away. Of course the beta would wear it as an accessory.
When he looked back, Hyunjin had lifted his head, eyes suddenly alight as if struck by divine stupidity.
Oh no.
Those eyes.
Those wretched eyes that were about to say something catastrophically stupid.
Hyunjin looked at Minho who instantly started sweeping. “Okay, hear me out before you bite my face off.”
Minho didn’t glance up. “Is the puppy offering his throat?” he drawled, voice dripping with faux sweetness and threat. “How generous.”
The beta rolled his eyes before smirking. “Tempting, but my collagen routine is too expensive to waste.” His expression softened, turning uncharacteristically sincere. “Besides, I think I can actually help you.”
Minho and his inner wolf both went still for a split second, a synchronized blink of surprise. “Help?” he echoed, suspicion instantly washing over the small, foolish spark of hope that had dared to appear. His wolf gave a low, doubtful chuff.
“So yesterday Jeongin told me—” Hyunjin began, his earnestness slipping back into salesman mode.
“Wait. Wait. WAIT. You started talking to that fox situationship of 4 years again? You swore you wouldn’t talk to him again!” Minho raised his broom like an angry mother wielding a slipper.
Hyunjin turned red. “That’s not the point! Besides, we’re just hooking up—”
“You said that last time,” Minho shot back, “and then cried into a pint of ice cream after you left your last hookup mid-session because you missed your 'boyfriend.' "
“Okay, no,” Hyunjin cut in, indignant. “I left because he wore skinny jeans to our first date. Skinny jeans, Minho. Who does that?” He shook his head like it was the most atrocious thing ever done by humanity. “Anyway, you should be thankful I slept with the "fluff trap" last night, because he gave me an address to this guy when he saw my—”
Minho groaned so deeply it rattled the salt shakers. His wolf pinned its ears back in immediate distrust.
“No.” His tone was flat, final, steeped in exhaustion. “The last ‘guy’ you knew was a spiritually attuned con artist in a sex cult. He tried to sell me cement for two hundred dollars.”
“That was one time!” Hyunjin protested, his scent flaring with defensive heat. “And he had five-star reviews on Yahoo!”
“Yes, by only one person, which turned out to be YOU, when you accidentally rated it while making out with your boyfriend!”
“Okay, so mistakes can happen. And also fyi Jeongin isn’t my boyfriend-”
“And who even uses Yahoo these days? That’s a bigger red flag than the cult itself!”
“Semantics.” Hyunjin waved a dismissive hand. “Besides, This one’s different, i swear! Even if the guy's methods are abit...unorthodox...they work! Plus he is council verified too! Jeongin swears by him.”
Minho’s broom slowed. He finally looked up, a single eyebrow arched. “Jeongin also ate weed thinking it was ornamental grass because he thought it would grant him intuition. He just spent the night puking behind the diner, sobbing about the meaning of life and his stomach ache."
“A fair point,” Hyunjin conceded, his voice dropping into a low, surprisingly serious murmur. He looked down, seemingly in deep, contemplative defeat. He even nodded slowly to himself, as if truly weighing Minho's logic.
Then Hyunjin’s head snapped up, eyes alight with renewed, catastrophic conviction. “But alsooo—!”
“No.” Minho said, already exhausted.
“—Jeongin’s cousin’s friend’s sister went to this guy because her dog was addicted to eating furniture. We’re talking entire dining chairs. Probably cupboards too. So you know what the healer did??"
Minho didn't reply anything.
"The brilliant healer turned the dog into a frog.”
Minho stared, dead-eyed.
“And?” Hyunjin prompted, as if this was the most compelling part. “Now it just sits in a pond and screams haikus at the moon. Are you getting me? THIS is the solution."
Minho blinked slowly. “Right. Fascinating. So your solution is for ME to go to some eccentric guy with ‘unorthodox methods’ because Jeongin’s cousin’s friend’s sister sent her "Furniture eating dog" to him and it’s now a frog?" "
"Yes." Hyunjin nodded as if he’d single-handedly solved world hunger.
"Pass."
"But why?!"
"Everything you’ve described sounds like a prelude to becoming a frog."
“Don’t be ridiculous. Green isn’t your color.” Hyunjin’s grin softened into something more earnest. “Just meet him. One session.”
He held up a single finger.
Minho held up his own gloved finger, "No."
“Fine.” Hyunjin shrugged and began wiping the counter with a little too much nonchalance. “I just thought you might want to meet the only healer in the city who’s lived completely alone his whole life. Rumor is he hasn’t spoken to another wolf outside of a session for years."
He paused, then added with deliberate softness, “They say he doesn’t just understand lone wolves… he prefers them.”
The words landed like a blade, quiet and sharp.
Minho’s gloved hands stilled on the broom.
Inside his chest, his wolf, which usually paced in restless silence, went perfectly still—then leaped. It wasn't an aggressive lunge, but a sudden, acute alertness, a prickle of wild curiosity that ran down Minho's spine like a static shock. The sensation was so foreign and intense it made his skin feel too tight. What? he thought, bewildered by his own reaction. Since when are you interested in therapy?
He looked away, his jaw tightening as he stared at the floor tiles, trying to smother the strange, eager tremor under his ribs. Defeat was a bitter pill, but this... this felt different. This wasn't about surrendering to the council's idiotic rules. It was a tactical assessment.
A healer who lived alone. Who wasn't repulsed by their condition, but preferred it. That wasn't a symptom; it was a strategy. It was a data point that didn't fit the council's pathetic narrative. If this guy was stable, verified, and solitary by choice, then he was living proof that their entire premise was flawed.
The university term started in four months. He could waste that time sweeping floors and raging at the injustice, or he could use their own system against them. He could walk into that office, see this living contradiction for himself, and let the healer's very existence become his argument. The certificate would just be the receipt.
It wasn't capitulation. It was reconnaissance. A strategic maneuver in a war he refused to lose.
The choice was suddenly, blindingly obvious.
He looked back at Hyunjin, his expression no longer defeated, but sharp with renewed purpose. "Fine," he said, his voice low and steady. "Give me the address. But if this one has a single crystal, a dreamcatcher, or asks me about my 'inner child,' I'm feeding your favorite jacket to a wolverine."
The threat was hollow, and they both knew it. Hyunjin's scent bloomed into pure, sunny triumph, so bright it was almost nauseating. His smile was blinding. "You're not going to regret this!"
"I already do," Minho said, but he was already pulling out his phone, the strange, hopeful stirring in his chest a stark contrast to his words. The address felt like either a one-way ticket to becoming a frog, or a very, very strange reprieve.
☘️｡:ﾟ✿ﾟ:｡🐺