The instructor leaned casually against his desk, arms crossed, letting the last few words of the previous lecture settle.
Some students still looked entertained.
Others—especially the Betas—were very, very quiet. That meant they were listening.
"Now," he said, voice smooth and unhurried, "to make sure none of you end up in a medical ward or on a pack-wide blacklist, let's review the four most obvious signs of an Alpha mate."
He turned to the board, writing in clean, deliberate strokes:
1. Expensive Clothing, Jewelry, and Markings
"Alpha mates don't dress normally," he said. "They wear tailored clothes. Limited editions. Custom orders. Rare fabrics. Anything that signals status."
A few students looked skeptical.
The instructor smiled.
"Jewelry is rarely just for style," he added. "Some pieces carry the Alpha's crest, house insignia, or are embedded with trackers. It's not fashion—it's a statement."
A Beta near the back raised his hand, cautiously.
"What if they're just rich?" he asked. "Not, like, an Alpha mate. Just… rich-rich?"
The instructor tilted his head, mildly amused.
"If you're wrong, you walk away a little embarrassed. If you're right, you wake up in traction."
The hand went down immediately.
2. Security and Black Car with Driver
"No Alpha mate travels alone," the instructor said. "Not in public."
He tapped the second line on the board.
"Standard protocol includes one black armored vehicle, a private driver, and at least one embedded security detail. At all times."
A few students exchanged glances.
Someone in the front whispered, "I saw a black car like that this morning…"
Another nodded. "Same one that dropped off—"
The instructor gave a brief, amused chuckle.
"Exactly."
3. Alpha Females Are Rarely Single
"Unlike Omega mates," he said, "Alpha females are almost always claimed."
"Sometimes officially. Sometimes not."
He looked over the class.
"Regardless of what ring she's wearing, assume her mate is watching. Because he is."
A girl muttered from the side, just loud enough:
"That's basically asking for a death sentence if we get to close."
The instructor didn't even turn.
"Correct."
The room chuckled.
Except a few people, who were now very visibly not laughing.
4. Check the Wedding Ring
"This is the easiest one," the instructor said. "And the one people ignore the most."
He stepped forward slightly.
"Alpha mate rings are never subtle. They're bold. Custom. Engraved. Often rare metals—black gold, blood-forged platinum, heirloom stones. Some of them are embedded with microchips."
He shrugged.
"Some of them are coded into private pack security systems."
The Beta in the front groaned, rubbing his face.
"So what you're saying is—if she's got designer clothes, private security, and a fancy ring… just leave?"
The instructor's smile was sharp.
"Run," he confirmed. "Or at the very least—be smart enough to mind your own business."
A few Omegas laughed.
The Betas didn't.
But he wasn't finished.
His tone shifted, growing more serious—less amused.
"Now—before I let you go—this next part is for those of you seriously considering careers inside a corporate pack structure. Especially if you're targeting Top-Ranking Alpha packs."
A few heads lifted.
That got attention.
"Administrative aides. Medical staff. Security. Logistics. Personal assistants. Drivers."
He looked over the class, expression flat.
"Those positions go almost exclusively to Omegas and less dominant Betas—and they pay extremely well."
A murmur ran through the room.
The instructor turned back to the board and wrote in bold:
Normal Pack
Then, next to it, he scrawled the second heading:
Top-Ranking Alpha Pack → External attacks → Internal espionage → Political assassinations → Mate-targeted kidnappings
He turned, tapping the last three points.
"This is what it looks like at the top."
His voice dropped a degree.
"If you work for a top-ranked Alpha—especially one with a mate, foreign rivals, or corporate enemies—you're stepping into a world with constant surveillance, political sabotage, and zero room for error."
One student leaned forward, frowning.
"But isn't that stuff more like private military? Not assistants or drivers."
The instructor smiled again, but this time it was cold.
"You think only the guards get targeted?"
He let that sit.
"Alphas don't protect the job title. They protect the proximity."
Another Beta raised a hand. "What about security contracts?"
"Profitable," the instructor acknowledged. "Very. Especially if you're Beta. A good, loyal Beta guard can earn triple to ten times the market rates."
He casually pointed toward the rear exit.
"To your left, near the back wall—see the girl with the cap?"
Heads turned.
A few students blinked.
Quiet. Discreet. Black hoodie. Cap low over her eyes.
She'd been sitting there every day that week—never spoke, never raised a hand.
Most assumed she was a Beta student keeping to herself.
"She's not enrolled," the instructor said. "She's a bodyguard."
Absolutely! Here's the rewritten continuation starting from:
"She's not enrolled," the instructor said. "She's a bodyguard."
A few heads turned sharply.
The Beta in the black cap remained still, hoodie drawn, eyes down. Just another quiet girl near the exit.
"But not a real one," the instructor added. "That's the bait."
The room went still.
"She's the decoy. The obvious one. The one you spot and think, 'Oh, that must be her only protection.'"
He paused.
"It's not."
Nene didn't flinch.
The girl in the cap scratched her ear.
Someone in the middle row suddenly looked very uncomfortable.
The instructor smirked.
"She makes about thirty times my monthly salary," he said, matter-of-fact. "And in return? She gets to risk her life every day playing human bullseye."
A few students laughed nervously.
"But don't worry," he added, glancing casually at the back of the room. "The real bodyguards are around here somewhere. Probably closer than you think."
His smile widened.
"You know. Among us."
A ripple of uncomfortable laughter spread across the room.
The instructor let it settle. He tapped the board again.
"The car."
"The ring."
He held up two fingers.
"These are the things you can see. And if you're not seeing them, you're not thinking."
"There's black car and then there's Black armored transport, driver in uniform, no license plate on the front? That's not luxury. That's a warning."
He held up one fingers.
"The ring? Understated, sure. Thin engraving even better."
A pause.
"But that's not fashion. That's design. Designed by an Alpha. For an Alpha mate."
He turned back to the board one last time, circling the final line.
"Alpha packs don't send warnings twice," he said. "If you're close enough to see the ring and read, you're close enough to get hit."
He stepped away from the board.
"Now," he said, voice returning to its usual relaxed rhythm, "if you're still thinking of applying for work in one of those packs…"
He gave a small shrug.
"…at least now you know where not to stand."
The instructor turned back to the board and wrote a single number in bold, sharp strokes:
10 Feet
Silence.
Then a few snickers from the middle row.
"You're joking, right?" one of the Beta guys asked weakly.
The instructor didn't smile.
He just raised one eyebrow.
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
The room went still.
No one laughed after that.
"This is the safest option," he continued calmly. "Alpha mates are trained to recognize threats. Some of them are trained to neutralize them."
A few students shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
"If you get too close—especially without permission, and especially if they don't know you—they will assume you're being disrespectful."
A Beta near the back muttered under his breath, "Ten feet seems… excessive."
The instructor turned slowly.
"Tell that," he said dryly, "to the last Beta who thought five feet was fine."
A pause.
"He got thrown across a ballroom."
Several Betas straightened in their chairs. A few visibly leaned back.
The instructor's tone didn't change.
"I'm not saying every Alpha will react violently. Some won't care."
A pause.
"Some will."
His expression sharpened slightly.
"Are you willing to bet which type you're dealing with?"
No one answered.
One Omega gave a tiny shake of his head.
The instructor nodded in satisfaction.
"Thought so."
He tapped the board again.
"Ten feet. It's not about manners. It's about survival. It is expect to be known learn and operational at all times. Its why you are in my class."
He glanced briefly at Nene.
Then at the student sitting closest to her—an oblivious Beta who'd slowly been inching his desk closer over the past week.
The instructor tilted his head slightly.
"You might want to scoot left, Mr. Han."
The Beta looked up.
"What?"
"Unless you're confident that ring doesn't mean what it very obviously means, I'd recommend putting some space."
The student paled. Visibly.
He glanced at Nene. At her ring. At her expression—which hadn't changed at all.
Then slowly dragged his desk several feet to the left.
The room didn't laugh.
They just watched.
Quiet.
Alert.
The instructor turned back to the board.
"And just so we're clear—Alpha mates don't usually attack without cause."
He gave a small smile.
"But you don't always see the cause. That's the part that gets you."