Becoming Luna

2 ~ The Search For Someone Worthy

(More than a year later...)

To an ordinary human, the AV conference room probably smells faintly of coffee and ocean breeze (as the tag on the reed diffuser says it contains) to make the room smell better than it actually does. Their noses can only detect the nothing-is-rotten-so-it's-clean scent.

Unfortunately, to wolf-shifters’ more sensitive noses, everything in the room is an assault to their sense of smell and their far more superior idea of what is perfectly clean. From the over-brewed coffee, to the incredibly disharmonious mix of perfumes and colognes of the human representatives present, to the cloying odor of the plastic folders and cups, and the metallic and slightly dusty smell of the air-conditioned room, all of it regrettably mixed with the nervous sweat of the applicants, plus other unmentionables… suffice to say this is some sort of purgatory, closer to hell than to paradise.

For Alexander Wolfenheim, the Alpha King’s youngest son, it is taking all his willpower not to leave the room until the whole ordeal of waiting for the deserving applicants is over.

As it is, the overhead lights buzz with a very low hum that grates on the frayed edges of his nerves, and he is starting to develop a tic on his left eyelid. Usually, he just sits there, bearing everything in moody, martyred silence, because this is all part of the agreement with his father. Today he is particularly restless, which does not bode well for the next applicants.

He sighs heavily for the third time, rotating the pen between his fingers around and around for the nth time, eyes fixed on nothing in particular in front of him. Across the long table, another hopeful applicant is speaking—passionately, one might say, but he has been tuning them out for a while now, so he’s not really sure—about innovation, sustainability, and ‘changing the world’ with a starter app.

He’s heard it all before. It’s the same old song that is being sung over and over again, and frankly, he’s getting tired of hearing it. But then again, it’s inevitable. The grant, afterall, is about making a difference. Of doing something that will actually benefit people and help make the world a better place.

It’s just… after hearing it so many times—the catchphrases, the voices that break from emotions, and the carefully rehearsed stories of how everything started—it’s like being fed the same food for several days in a row. It has become unappetizing and even downright nauseating.

And there’s still a month left of this torture before he could finally return home.

“…and that’s why I believe our app will truly empower underprivileged youth in underserved communities. It will revolutionize access to mental health resources to those who need it the most,” the applicant declares, with the wide-eyed confidence of someone used to winning things. “We aim to change the world for the better.”

There it is.

Of course, they won’t dare forget it. The punchline. Different wording sometimes, but more or less the same. And he is bored to his skull of it all.

He blinks slowly, his gaze drifting toward the projected screen containing big words that would sound convincing to someone unfamiliar with them. Only, Alexander is familiar with programming and the start-up process. While the applicant might have decent programming skills, his presentation lacks real depth; only a gibberish collection of technical words strung together, aiming to impress, but nothing more.

The applicant doesn’t even look at him. To be fair, most of them don't because he’s not a familiar face. Instead, they look expectantly at the older members of the committee, the ones with regal expressions and expensive pens scribbling on their notepads or listening with screesaver eyes. Only the Moon Goddess knows what cartoonish stuff they are doodling.

They are the ones the applicants are expecting to cast votes. What they don’t know is that it’s Alexander who gives the final and decisive nod. He’s also the one who will sign the check.

His fingers tap a slow rhythm against the file folder in front of him, containing a sealed envelope. One that will only be opened on a specific date, and only if he finds someone worthy. Which is why his father had insisted Alexander be here. Sitting in. Observing everything. Making sure his family’s investments don’t go to someone who’s only good at marketing, but to someone who really deserves it.

He exhales softly, eyes narrowing just a fraction as the applicant finishes with a winning smile.

Another performance. Another act of practiced sincerity. Alexander wonders, not for the first time, if anyone applying for this grant actually cares about the cause, or if they just see it as a golden ladder to step on. A box to check or a golden trophy to post. An ego feeder.

Alexander clears his throat and everyone turns to look at him. He nods pensively, almost lazily.

“Revolutionize?” His tone is mild but there’s something in it that makes the applicant start sweating. “That’s a pretty strong word. Could you walk us through what makes your app better than, say, a clone of the other four we’ve heard this week?”

There’s a moment’s hesitation. A flicker of panic flashes on the applicant’s face, cracking the confident façade, before he relaunches into a version two point five of his practiced speech, still padded with so much jargon that Alexander doubts anyone truly understands.

But he listens intently, eyes steady, face still. Beneath the calm surface, he’s counting every buzzword, filing them away like audited receipts.

“I see,” he says when the applicant finishes. “So your business model depends on grant funding until... when, exactly?”

He blinks. “Oh, uh… Until we reach a sustainable user base. We project—”

“—Right. The projections.” He points to the folder with the app’s name on it but doesn’t take it, just taps the cover lightly. “I’m just curious…How much of the budget goes to paying your own salary in the first year?”

Something in the room shifts as he truly grills an applicant for the very first time. A soft shuffle of papers, a cough here and there. One of the older committee members gives him a subtle side-eye, but no one dares interrupt.

The applicant hesitates. “Well, I… we’ve factored in a modest founder stipend, just enough to—”

“Live on the fashionable side of Paris,” he finishes. “Got it.”

Still no smile. Just the smooth, unreadable tone of someone who knows exactly where the cracks are and doesn’t mind pressing on them.

The applicant tries to recover, pivots to passion. Childhood struggles. An emotional call to make a difference.

However, Alexander has had enough. He leans back on his chair, folding his arms. “Thank you. That was… inspiring.”

The words land with a soft click, almost sincere, if one weren’t paying attention. The chairwoman thanks the applicant and politely dismisses them. The applicant scurries away and the door closes with a soft click.

“So much for being stealthy,” one of his father’s friends mutters. “Now word is going to spread about you and—”

“What harm would that do? The applicants will up their game? Good, because I’m tired of hearing the same bullshit over and over again.” He frowns. “My father was very clear with his instructions. Make sure the money goes to the right person. Someone worthy.”

“As far as I know, your father also instructed you to keep a low profile.”

He grits his teeth. “I would have if you were asking the right questions.”

“We were.”

“No, you were asking textbook questions. They are not the same.” He stands up. “Ask the right questions and you will hardly notice I’m here. Until then, I will be grilling each and everyone that enters through that door. And don’t worry about reporting this to my father. I will be telling him myself.”

Later that night.

His mother’s disapproving look greets him as soon as he accepts the videocall request.

“You had one job, Alex. Couldn’t you have kept quiet instead of stirring the waters like you always do? What was the point of this exercise if you’re still going to do things your way?”

He grins. “Didn’t think they would really call him. Is he mad?”

His mother sighs. “Worse. He’s…quiet.”

Uh-oh. That does not bode well.

“I’ll talk to him, don't worry. How’s Alexa today?”

“Same as always. Bored. She’s asking when you would be coming home.”

“Tell her it’s just going to be one more month. It’ll fly by like it’s nothing.”

His mother snorts. “Like that’ll sell.”

Alexander takes a deep breath. “All right, bring the phone to Dad.”

The alpha king is in his study, still working despite the late hour.

“Your son wants to talk to you,” he hears his mother say.

His father takes the phone and the piercing icy blue eyes, the very same ones Alexander has, send a cold shiver down his spine.

“How is my wolfless son?”