April wasn't ready.
At least, that's what she thought—until the leader hurled a knife straight at her face.
Her body reacted before thought. She ducked, air slicing past her ear as the blade clattered against concrete.
Her heart pounded in her throat.
"What the hell?!"
The leader's voice was flat. "You have to be faster."
April's hands curled into fists.
"I can't see!"
"Then stop pretending you're blind. Use what you have."
His tone wasn't angry. Worse—it was indifferent. Like he didn't care if she failed.
Or died.
April gritted her teeth. Fine. If they wanted her to fight, she'd fight.
—
The lesson began with her second ability.
"You already lean on your hearing," the leader said. "But wolves don't just listen. They hunt. You need to wake your second sense—Smell."
April crossed her arms. "And how am I supposed to just… switch that on?"
Sharp Voice tossed something towards her. April instinctively caught it. "A rag?"
It was rough against her palm.
"That belonged to someone who just left this building. Find them."
April turned her head towards the person she took to calling sharp voice with a look that equalled to a dead-panned stare with her stitched eyelids.
"Are you serious?"
"Deadly," sharp voice quipped.
April lifted the rag to her nose and she took a quick hesitant sniff—and the next following second the world ruptured.
Scents burst into her mind like shattered glass. Sweat, metal, grease, blood.
Each one distinct, layered, alive.
Invisible trails wove through the air like threads of smoke, twisting, crossing, tangling into a map her brain shouldn't understand but somehow did.
April staggered. Almost dropping the cloth.
"What the—?"
The leader's voice followed, a shadow against her ear. "Good. Now track it."
Her body moved without thought.
Like a predetar who got a whiff of its preys blood. And without thinking she hunted.
April followed the thread of scent—slipping through the warehouse, across shadows, to a door she hadn't noticed before.
The night air hit her, thick with gasoline, smoke, cooked meat, garbage, rain. The world was too much.
It crushed down on her.
But beneath it all, a single trace pulled her forward.
She turned a corner—
And nearly collided with a man.
The rag's owner.
He arched a brow. "That was fast."
April's generous chest heaved. Sweat clung to her back.
"…I found you."
Behind her, leader's voice echoed.
"Welcome to your second ability."
April wanted to feel proud. But instead she felt… hunted. As though the Gear was pulling her forward, not her own will.
—
Later, they led her deeper into the warehouse. Down stairs she hadn't seen before. The air was cooler here, sharp with dust and steel.
Four figures waited in the half-light.
"Your pack," leader said simply.
April's hearing stretched outward. Four heartbeats. Four different human outlines.
Each steady, each different.
The weight of their breathing told her more than their words ever could.
The first stepped forward.
Broad-shouldered, confident. His voice carried the arrogance of someone who had never lost a fight.
The man was approximately 180 cm, his lean yet toned frame wrapped in a quiet stillness that gave off a restrained intensity. His posture was relaxed, but there was nothing soft about him—his presence felt like the calm before a storm, alert and watchful. Broad at the shoulders and narrow at the waist, he moved like someone used to surviving rather than simply existing.
He had jet-black that fell in disheveled waves just above his shoulders, slightly parted and messily swept back, with several strands falling around his sharp-featured face. There was something raw and untamed in the way it framed his eyes—those narrow, heavy-lidded eyes, dark and unreadable, always seeming to size up the world with quiet defiance.
His skin was fair but weathered in a way that hinted at experience, hardship, and countless fights. A faint scar crossed the bridge of his nose—old, but not forgotten.
He wore a loose, beige long-sleeved shirt tucked into a pair of black tactical cargo pants. The shirt's oversized fit draped over his figure in a way that betrayed none of his strength, making him appear even more elusive. His pants were functional, covered in large pockets and cinched at the ankles—ideal for movement. On his feet, well-worn sneakers, chosen for practicality, not appearance.
A silver earring dangled from one ear, understated but sharp, like everything about him. He didn't seek attention—but if you looked too long, you couldn't look away.
"Jax. Lion."
His presence filled the room like heat. The way he stood—it was enough to make April want to step back.
Next was a woman who barely seemed to touch the ground. She moved like smoke, her voice smooth and cutting.
The woman stood with an unshakable poise, her posture graceful yet unwavering—like a blade sheathed in discipline. Standing at roughly 170 cm, her silhouette was statuesque and commanding.
Her build was sleek and toned, with curves that held both elegance and strength. Broad at the hips and an E-cupped chest, her femininity was pronounced but never exaggerated, balanced by the quiet intensity in her gaze.
She had jet-black hair that fell in a flawless curtain to just below her shoulders—straight, glossy, and cut sharply at the bangs, which framed her pale, symmetrical face like the stroke of an ink brush.
It gave her an almost porcelain beauty, unbothered and composed, like she was always one step ahead of her surroundings.
Her eyes were large, framed with long lashes and painted in soft, shadowy hues of grey and violet. They were calm and unreadable, always slightly narrowed, as if weighing the worth of everything she looked at. There was a precision to her stare, the kind that made silence feel heavy. And around her neck two black lines were wrapped around her like delicate necklaces.
Her lips were full and lightly glossed.
Clad in a fitted black gi-style uniform, her outfit was both martial and elegant—tight across the waist and chest, loose around the legs for movement, bound with a wrap that accentuated her narrow waist. The sleeves were rolled just short of the elbow, revealing pale, unblemished arms that hinted at skill more than softness.
Her black boots were functional, worn but polished, laced tight as if ready for action at a moment's notice.
"Saya. Panther."
April almost lost track of her the moment she shifted her weight.
The air seemed to bend around her silence.
Then came the mountain. Heavy, immovable. His voice was gravel.
"Dante. Bear."
Dante carried himself with a self-assured, almost teasing air, standing at around 185 cm in height. His physique was lean and defined, not overly bulky but carved with strength—like a dancer forged in battle.
Broad shoulders gave way to a tapered waist, every movement fluid yet grounded, hinting at agility and precision born from instinct rather than formal discipline.
His hair was a chaotic blend of raven black and blood red, thick and unkempt in an intentional way. Strands swept back and down around his face, while a rebellious streak of crimson curled near his temples, accentuating the sharp angles of his cheekbones. Two short, red curved horns jutted from the crown of his head—small yet striking, more ornamental than threatening, but unmistakably otherworldly.
His eyes were a vivid crimson, narrow and intense, glowing faintly like embers stoked by chaos. They held a wicked glint, both charming and dangerous—like someone who could smile while setting the world on fire. Red markings, almost like painted tears or claw marks, trailed beneath his eyes, as though etched by something primal.
His face was sharp—flawless skin, high cheekbones, and a jawline defined with enough edge to cut glass.
A black choker circled his neck, tight and symbolic. From both ears hung striking black-and-red rectangular earrings, swaying with each step like warnings.
He wore loose black pants, tied at the waist with a crimson sash that hung like a war ribbon. His forearms and shins were wrapped in dark cloth, lending a fighter's silhouette to his frame he walked barefoot.
Even his breathing sounded like resistance made flesh.
April's instincts screamed—nothing could move him unless he allowed it.
And finally, the youngest. Relaxed, casual, but too sharp around the edges. He smiled like he knew things before they happened.
The youngest is a slender, androgynous young man with short, fluffy pastel pink hair, its soft waves falling loosely around his face in an unkempt yet deliberate style. His hair tends to shadow his forehead and ears, creating a light, airy frame around his delicate features. His eyes are a vivid violet, bright and piercing, often half-lidded and calm in expression, giving him a composed, unreadable look.
His complexion is fair and smooth, almost porcelain-like, complementing the gentle tone of his hair. Kai's build is lean and lightly toned, reflecting agility rather than bulk, and he carries himself with quiet confidence and fluid posture.
He wears a loose beige T-shirt emblazoned with a simple black cat symbol, layered over a tight black turtleneck that hugs his neck and arms. His pants are black cargo-style, practical and slightly baggy, cinched at the waist by a belt and tucked neatly into his black high-top sneakers with white soles and small printed text details. Small silver hoop earrings adorn his ears, subtly catching the light when he moves.
"Kai. Hawk."
April tilted her head.
The way he tracked her—not with his eyes, but with focus—it made her feel pinned.
"And me… I'm Juno," said the individual who April now knew was the owner of the rag she previously sniffed. His voice was soft, almost unsure.
"Kuro," came the voice of the individual April dubbed as sharp voice his reply was—short, cold, and it cut through the air like a blade.
"And as for me you'll have to address me as 'Leader', said the leader who stood at around 180 cm with pale long and flowing blond hair that reached past his shoulders.
He often tied it back into a loose braid, though stray locks still slipped forward to curtain part of his face. The new length softened his image, giving him an almost ethereal presence, yet the fierceness in his eyes betrayed the beast beneath.
His eyes were icy grey, piercing and cold, yet with a depth that hinted at burdens he carried silently. Narrow and slightly shadowed, they lent him a calculating, almost predatory gaze. A few faint scars traced across his skin, subtle but speaking of survival and struggle.
He wore a dark combat jacket with a high collar, its edges sharp and functional. The jacket was marked with accents of bright blue along the sleeves, breaking the monotony of black and lending a faint emblematic feel. Straps crossed his chest in a practical harness, hinting at a life steeped in combat. His presence was that of a leader cloaked in mystery—steady, intimidating, yet alluring in the way only those who hide secrets can be.
The leader's hands clapped once, sharp in the silence.
"Now that you've met your allies… training begins."
Allies. April swallowed hard.
They didn't feel like allies.
They felt like predators.
And she had just been thrown into their den.