The classroom had been rearranged into something that looked official without quite becoming permanent, desks pushed into a single line, a folding table at the front, the whiteboard wiped clean of equations and left blank as if knowledge itself had been temporarily suspended.
Chloe sat across from the two men, her hands resting flat against her thighs, posture straight in a way that was less about politeness and more about finishing this as quickly as possible.
The man in the suit offered her a small, practiced smile, the kind designed to soften the edges of a process that didn't really have soft edges.
"Park, Chloe," he said, glancing at the document in front of him before looking back up. "Korean?"
She nodded once.
"I've always wanted to visit," he added, tone light, searching for something conversational. "Seoul, specifically. I've heard it's an incredible city."
"It is," she said, her voice even. "Very busy."
He waited a fraction longer, as if there might be more, then read the absence correctly and let the moment go.
"Alright," he said, shifting smoothly. "Let's proceed."
His pen hovered briefly over the page. "Do you identify as human or as a member of a recognized supernatural category?"
Chloe's eyes dropped to the table for a second, not long enough to be obvious, just enough for the thought to pass through.
You could say human.
The calculation came quick and clean, the way it always did. The tests would follow anyway. The outcome wouldn't change. The only variable was time.
The man in the suit watched her without pressure, then spoke before the silence stretched too far.
"It's not worth the trouble of guessing wrong," he said, his tone still warm. "We'll confirm either way. Being direct just makes this easier on you."
Chloe exhaled softly through her nose.
"Mage," she said.
He nodded once, as if ticking off a box he had expected to tick.
The man in the lab coat stepped forward without needing to be prompted, already reaching for the device set on the side table.
It looked like a modified Van de Graaff generator, the metal dome replaced with a clear glass orb that caught the overhead light in a dull, functional way.
"Both hands, please," he said.
Chloe placed her palms against the glass, the surface cool and smooth under her skin.
There was a brief pause, a quiet hum as the machine engaged, and then the orb lit from within.
The glow was steady and contained, not bright enough to draw attention beyond the table, not dim enough to miss, a simple confirmation that the current passing through her wasn't entirely ordinary.
The man in the lab coat glanced at a small display on the side, nodded to himself, and began writing.
Chloe watched the movement of his pen more than the light, the way he filled in the lines with practiced efficiency, the motion identical to what it would have been for any other student before her.
He signed at the bottom, pressed a stamp down with a firm, final motion, and slid the paper across the table.
"Thank you for your cooperation," he said, his voice neutral but not unkind. "This is your certificate of recognition. Your information will be updated in the school system and in the national database."
Chloe took the paper.
The weight of it was negligible, standard stock, nothing special, but it felt different in her hands than it had on the table.
The men were already moving on, resetting the device, preparing for the next student, the process continuing without pause.
She stayed where she was for a second longer.
Her name sat at the top in clean, printed text, followed by details that had always existed but had never been presented to her like this.
Age. Height. Nationality.
And then the line that hadn't been there before, not in any official capacity.
Status: Mage.
이게 뭐야.
The thought came in Korean, softer, less precise, carrying something she didn't bother translating.
She didn't have a name for what she was feeling, and she didn't try to make one.
Meanwhile, the second-year classroom looked the same as the others had been described, desks moved aside, a table set up with the same two-man configuration, the same quiet hum of something official taking place where it normally didn't.
Adam stepped inside and closed the door behind him, the sound clicking into place with a finality that felt heavier than it should have.
He had already made the decision.
It sat in his chest like something held too tightly, not comfortable, not stable, but there.
Say human. Keep it simple. Just... keep it simple.
Some man in a suit looked up as he approached, offering the same practiced smile.
"Adam Greene," he said, checking the paper. "Go ahead and have a seat."
Adam did, his movements controlled in a way that took effort to maintain.
"Human or supernatural classification?" the man asked, pen poised.
"Human," Adam said.
The word came out clean.
The man's expression didn't change, but there was a brief pause, a small recalibration in his eyes that suggested this was not new information to process.
"Are you sure?" he asked, not challenging, just confirming.
Adam met his gaze. "Totally."
The man nodded once, accepting the answer without argument, and gestured slightly to the lab coat.
"Let's proceed."
The lab coat man moved with the same efficiency Chloe had seen, reaching for the first item on the table.
A mirror.
"Look straight ahead," he said.
Adam did, watching his own reflection stare back at him, normal in every way that mattered for this test.
The man made a note and set the mirror aside.
Next came a small UV torch, the beam passing over Adam's skin in a quick, practiced sweep.
No reaction.
Another note.
The rhythm of it was steady, almost mechanical, each step eliminating a possibility without comment, the process narrowing with quiet certainty.
Then the lab coat man reached for something that looked unremarkable at first glance.
A bandage.
He peeled it from its backing with careful precision and stepped closer.
"This will go on your forearm," he said. "Please hold still."
Adam extended his arm.
The bandage touched his skin.
At first, it was nothing.
Then something.
A faint irritation, barely there, the kind of sensation that could be ignored if he chose to ignore it.
He tried.
The man stepped back, already reaching for the next item.
A small torch.
"Look at me," he said.
Adam lifted his gaze.
The light flashed directly into his eyes.
For a fraction of a second, the world narrowed to brightness, and in that brightness something shifted, something automatic and instinctive.
The man in the lab coat leaned slightly, watching.
There it was.
A faint, reflective gleam, not strong, not dramatic, but present, the way a wolf's eyes catch light in the dark for just a moment before it disappears.
"Possible positive for werewolf," he said, his tone unchanged.
The bandage itched.
No, not itched.
It burned.
Not sharply, not enough to cause immediate reaction, but steadily, the sensation building in a slow, insistent way that made it harder to ignore with each passing second.
Adam kept his arm still.
Don't react. Don't fucking move...
The thought fractured as the discomfort climbed, a dull, invasive heat spreading under the strip of fabric.
The man in the lab coat reached forward and peeled it off.
Relief came immediately.
Not complete, not clean, but enough to register as a shift, the pressure gone, the sensation easing in its absence.
What was that?
Adam thought as he looked down.
The skin beneath was red, the outline of the bandage clear, slightly raised, irritated in a way that didn't belong to normal contact.
And already changing.
The redness was fading at the edges, the raised skin settling, the irritation receding faster than it should have, the process visible if you were watching for it.
The man in the lab coat was.
"Confirmed werewolf," he said, writing it down.
Adam blinked once, the word landing with a weight that didn't match the tone it had been delivered in.
"How?" he asked.
The man glanced up briefly, then back to his notes.
"The adhesive backing contains a silver compound," he said, his voice calm, explanatory. "Human skin shows no reaction. Yours did, and is currently repairing at an accelerated rate. Combined with the ocular response, that provides sufficient confirmation."
He spoke as if outlining steps in a solved equation, the conclusion inevitable from the data provided.
Adam sat back slightly, his arm still tingling where the bandage had been.
The man in the lab coat finished writing, signed the document, and stamped it with a firm motion
He slid it across the table.
"Thank you for your cooperation," he said. "This is your certificate of recognition. Your information will be updated in the school system and in the national database."
Adam took the paper.
The men were already resetting, already moving on, the process continuing with the same steady rhythm.
He looked down.
His name sat at the top.
Adam Greene.
Below it, the details lined up in clean, printed text.
Age. Height. Race.
A small photo in the corner, one he vaguely recognized from school records.
And then, at the bottom.
Status: Werewolf.
The font was the same as everything else.
No emphasis.
No distinction.
Just another line in a list of things that defined him.
The government seal sat at the top, embossed slightly into the paper, the stamp overlapping the lower corner, the signature precise and unreadable.
He ran his thumb lightly over the stamp, feeling the indentation, the physical proof of something that had just been made official.
This is it.
The thought didn't finish.
It didn't need to.
He sat there for a second longer than necessary, the paper steady in his hands, the room already moving on around him.
He didn't know how he felt about it, not yet at least.
And he didn't know what that was going to mean next.