My Scumbag System

I weighed the options, mentally playing through scenarios I might face. Training sessions with Braxton, where controlled, sustainable damage output would be key. Potential encounters with Julian and the Sentinels, where I might need to make a statement with overwhelming force. The joint operation in two weeks, where strategy and adaptability would be crucial.

"For now, I stick with EMBER," I decided, closing the ability selection screen with a dismissive flick. "It's more versatile, and with the ring boost, it's decent in combat without leaving me defenseless. Energy Emission is an 'oh shit' button that leaves me as useful as a wet paper bag afterward. Better to keep that in reserve until I know I'm walking into a boss fight."

[A prudent, if somewhat cowardly, decision,] Nel said, managing to make 'prudent' sound like 'pathetic'. [The Administrator has noted your choice with mild disappointment. She was hoping for more explosions.]

"Cowardly is surviving to fight another day," I countered, irritated by her dismissal. "Dead heroes don't get sequels, and I'm playing the long game. Tell your Administrator—"

Three firm knocks interrupted my thoughts, echoing in the small room with authority.

These weren't Natalia's impatient rap or Emi's timid tap. Someone confident. Someone who wasn't afraid to be here. Someone who expected the door to open for them.

I closed my status screen with a thought and glanced at myself in the mirror hanging on my closet door. After the day's events, I looked disheveled, my uniform stained and torn from Braxton's "lesson." My hair was a mess, and there was still dried blood at the corner of my mouth where I'd taken a particularly nasty hit.

A thought occurred to me. If it was Bubblegum or Soomin coming to check on me after today's beating, I might as well give them something to look at.

Reinforce the brand. Play up the wounded warrior aesthetic.

With a smirk, I pulled off my shirt, letting it drop to the floor. My upper body now bare, I surveyed my reflection with satisfaction. The results of my intense training were evident. Defined abs. Broad shoulders. Arms corded with lean muscle. A canvas of fading bruises painted across my torso told the story of my recent "training." I'd come a long way from the "human-shaped disappointment" I once was.

I ran a hand through my hair to mess it up artfully, then opened the door with casual confidence, leaning against the frame in a way that displayed my physique to maximum advantage.

It wasn't Skylar. It wasn't Soomin.

Isabelle Okoye stood in the hallway, her perfect posture making her seem taller than her already impressive height. Her wine-red eyes widened fractionally, so brief I almost missed it, before settling into their usual analytical gaze. She was wearing the standard Onyx Hounds uniform, but somehow on her, it looked like designer couture.

"Nakano-san," she said, one perfectly shaped eyebrow arching upward like a question mark. "Am I interrupting your... pre-training meditation? Or perhaps a photoshoot for the academy calendar?"

Her gaze traveled over my bare torso with the clinical detachment of a biologist studying a specimen. Not a woman admiring a man's body. It was unnerving, like being x-rayed. Those wine-red eyes catalogued every bruise, every muscle, every scar with academic interest rather than desire.

"Okoye," I said, quickly recovering my composure. I didn't step back or reach for my shirt. That would acknowledge embarrassment. "What an unexpected pleasure. Did you need something, or were you just in the neighborhood?"

"May I come in?" she asked, ignoring my question with aristocratic ease.

I stepped aside, suddenly acutely aware of the contrast between us. Me, half-naked and still bearing fading bruises from Braxton's beating. Her, perfectly composed and radiating aristocratic grace. Not a hair out of place. Not a wrinkle in her uniform. Not a chip in her nail polish.

"Please excuse the intrusion," she said formally, gliding past me into the room. Her movement was so smooth it almost seemed choreographed, like water flowing over stones. Her eyes swept over my sparse belongings. The unmade bed. The stack of textbooks I hadn't opened. The abandoned uniform shirt on the floor. She lingered momentarily on Bartholomew's terrarium. The snail was pressing himself against the glass facing Isabelle, eyestalks fully extended in what appeared to be snail adoration.

"Cute pet," she commented mildly, her tone suggesting she found the concept of pets quaint, like indoor plumbing or democracy.

"He's immortal," I said, because apparently my brain had decided this was relevant information to share. "Can't die. Trust me, I've tried."

Isabelle's lips curved slightly, a ghost of amusement haunting her features for a brief moment. "How appropriate for you. The undying creature that refuses to stay in its place. A fitting familiar for the 'Stray Dog.'"

I grabbed my hoodie from the bed and pulled it on. The temperature between us had dropped several degrees with that observation.

"Not that I don't appreciate having you in my room, but is there a reason you're here? I doubt it's to discuss my pet-keeping skills."

Isabelle turned from her inspection of my room and fixed those unsettling red eyes on me. They were the color of blood wine, ancient and intoxicating. "I came to discuss the leadership situation. Your appointment was... unexpected."

"Ah." I leaned against my desk, crossing my arms. "Let me guess. You're wondering why Braxton chose me to lead the training for the next two weeks instead of you. Questioning his judgment? Or mine for accepting?"

"Among other things," Isabelle acknowledged with a slight incline of her head, so regal it bordered on parody. "It was an interesting decision, given the circumstances."

"You're more qualified," I said bluntly, watching for her reaction.

"Yes." No false modesty from Isabelle. Just the simple statement of an obvious fact, like acknowledging the sky is blue or water is wet. "I am."

"Yet you're not protesting his decision. You haven't gone to Braxton to argue your case. Which means you're curious about something."

"I'm curious to see where it leads." She moved to the window, looking out at the academy grounds. The afternoon light caught in her wine-red hair, setting it aflame like embers in the darkness. "You're an anomaly, Nakano-san. A statistical outlier that defies easy categorization."

"I get that a lot," I drawled, watching her carefully. "Usually right before someone tries to put me back in my box."