Deadman's College of Arcane Horrors loomed like a cursed monument, its gothic towers clawing at the pale sky. The name itself was scrawled in eerie green letters over the entrance, flickering like it had a mind of its own.
Inside, the classroom buzzed with a mix of whispers and unsettling growls. The teacher—tall, thin, and wrapped in something that resembled both robes and old skin—called out names from a brittle scroll.
"Von Crankenstein?"
A boy raised his hand with a calm air. "Here."
He stood out—not in height or voice, but in presence. Von Crankenstein had short, dark, wavy hair and a sculpted jawline. His face wore a smug sort of calm, like he knew something no one else did. A faint smirk danced on his lips.
He wore a sharp three-piece suit—dark jacket, green waistcoat, crisp white shirt, and a silver-gray tie. A white pocket square peeked from his chest like a final, smug wink. He looked more like he belonged at a gala than a classroom full of goblins, ghouls, and worse.
The teacher paused, then cleared his throat. "Now, before we begin, the first—and most important—rule: You must remain in your monstrous form at all times. Any student caught in a human disguise will be… expelled. Permanently."
The room went still.
Several students turned to glance at Von Crankenstein, sniffing the air subtly. A sweet, almost too-clean scent lingered around him. Human. Or… was it?
No way, one student thought, eyeing him nervously. Humans can't even find this place.
But that smell—it was unmistakable. Could it be that he'd mastered his transformation so well that even his scent mimicked humanity?
Or he's just that stupid.
Because really—who would be foolish enough to walk into a school full of monsters… as a human?
Whispers slithered through the classroom like smoke.
"He's too clean."
"Too quiet."
"Too… put together."
A scaled student with six eyes narrowed them all at once. A wraith-like girl floating above her seat tilted her head, curious. Even the goblin chewing on the leg of a desk paused to sniff again.
Von Crankenstein remained motionless, eyes half-lidded, seemingly unaware—or uncaring—of the growing attention. He tapped his fingers against his desk in a rhythm only he seemed to understand.
The teacher's eyes, hollow but burning, swept across the class. "Let's move on."
But the tension remained, stitched into the seams of every breath.
A clawed student three rows down suddenly leaned forward. "Hey," it growled, voice like gravel soaked in blood. "What kind of monster are you supposed to be?"
Von didn't answer right away. He slowly turned his head, one eyebrow arching in faint amusement.
"A refined one," he said smoothly.
The class snickered—some with interest, others with suspicion. The clawed student bared jagged teeth.
"That's not an answer."
Von's smirk widened a fraction. "And yet, it's the only one you'll get."
Before the situation could boil over, the lights dimmed, and the teacher slammed a skeletal hand on the desk. "Enough."
Darkness pulsed at the edges of the classroom. The lesson began—an introduction to forbidden runes etched in the flesh of forgotten gods—but most eyes remained fixed on the boy in the suit.
Even the runes seemed to twitch as they neared Von's desk, like they were unsure of him. Like they didn't know what he was either.
He doesn't belong here, thought one student.
Or maybe… thought another, he belongs more than any of us.
Because the truth is: monsters are born or made.
But sometimes, the most dangerous ones?
They pretend to be human.
Class dragged on, but no one was paying full attention—not really. The chalk, made of compressed bone dust, scraped across the black stone board as the teacher scrawled runes in a dead language. Symbols that whispered when you looked at them too long. Symbols that crawled into your dreams.
Von Crankenstein didn't write anything down.
He simply watched.
Not the teacher, not the lesson—but the other students.
His eyes moved subtly from face to face. Noting which ones glared, which ones muttered. Which ones seemed truly curious, and which were just waiting for an excuse to pounce.
The wraith girl leaned closer to him during a break between notes. Her voice was soft, breathless—like a wind that had just passed through a graveyard.
"You smell like secrets," she said.
Von turned to her, and for a moment, the smirk faded.
"You should stop sniffing," he replied. "It'll kill the mystery."
That got a ghostly giggle from her. A few students nearby watched with growing irritation.
Then came a sound. Clink. Clink.
The door at the back of the classroom opened with a rattle. A tall figure ducked through the frame—wrapped in charred robes and trailing a chain of smoldering bones. His face was hidden behind a mask carved from volcanic glass. The air grew heavier.
The teacher straightened. "Ah. Dean Mortallis. A surprise visit."
The Dean said nothing, but his eyes—or whatever was behind the mask—landed directly on Von Crankenstein.
"You," the Dean rasped. "Come with me."