My Scumbag System-Chapter 300: The Most Expensive Babysitting Gig in History

Chapter 300: The Most Expensive Babysitting Gig in History

Braxton Miller stood against the wall of a private recovery room, an unlit synth-cigarette trembling between his fingers. He’d been rolling it back and forth for the past hour. Hadn’t smoked once. The nurses would kill him if he did, and right now, Braxton figured he deserved worse than a lecture from medical staff.

The room was high-security. Reinforced walls. Soundproofing that could muffle a bomb. A single window that looked out over the academy’s eastern courtyard, where students walked to classes like the world hadn’t almost ended two days ago.

The only sound was the rhythmic beeping of the life support monitor.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Each pulse felt like an accusation.

Braxton looked at the bed.

Satori Nakano looked small.

The kid who’d strutted around campus like he owned the place, who’d talked trash to all the professors in front of the entire draft audience, who’d by report, faced down an A-Rank nightmare and laughed in its face. That kid was gone. Replaced by a broken boy wrapped in bandages and bacta-patches, his chest encased in a regenerator brace that hummed with expensive medical magic.

His face was pale. Purple bruises mottled his jaw and cheekbones. One eye was swollen completely shut, the other hidden beneath a cooling compress. Tubes ran from his arms to various machines, feeding him nutrients and pain suppressants.

He hadn’t woken up since they pulled him out of the Gate.

Braxton’s cigarette snapped in half.

He stared at the broken pieces in his palm.

"I cleared the docket," he said to no one. The words felt like glass in his throat. "The Dig Team swept that Gate three times before we sent them in. Readings were standard C-Rank. High ether density, sure, but nothing outside parameters. Nothing that suggested..." He swallowed. "Nothing like that."

The door opened behind him.

Braxton didn’t turn around. He knew who it was. He’d been waiting for them. Dreading them.

Luka Kuzmina entered first. The man was massive, a wall of muscle and quiet authority that made the expensive hospital room feel cramped. His dark hair was shot through with gray at the temples, and his face bore the weathered look of a veteran Hunter who’d seen too many Gates and buried too many friends.

Kimiko Nakano followed.

She was smaller than her husband by a significant margin, but she carried herself with the coiled tension of someone who could level a building if sufficiently motivated. Her crimson hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, and her hazel eyes burned with barely contained fire.

Right now, looking at her son in that bed, she looked ready to burn the world down.

"Braz." Luka’s voice was quiet.

"Commander." Braxton finally turned. He couldn’t meet Luka’s eyes. "I sent them into a meat grinder."

Luka crossed the room in three long strides. His massive hand landed on Braxton’s shoulder. "The Gates don’t follow our rules," Luka said. "You know that. We roll the dice every time we step through that membrane. Every single time."

He looked at Satori, and something complicated moved behind his eyes. Pride. Pain. Fear. Love. "He survived. He protected his team. He protected my daughter." Luka’s jaw tightened. "That’s the only metric that matters today."

Braxton wanted to argue. Wanted to take the blame, wrap it around himself like a familiar coat. It was what he did. Gamble, lose, suffer the consequences.

But Luka wouldn’t let him.

Kimiko had moved to Satori’s bedside. She sat in the visitor’s chair, her small hand wrapped around her son’s uninjured fingers. The fire had banked in her eyes, replaced by something softer. Something maternal.

"The NVA press office has locked down the story," she said quietly. Her voice was steady, but Braxton could hear the strain beneath it. "They’re calling it a training accident. Structural collapse in an unstable dungeon zone. No mention of the Anomaly. No mention of..." She looked at Satori’s face. "No mention of what he did."

What he did.

Braxton had watched the replay footage from the students’ combat recorders.

He’d seen Satori Nakano, broken and bleeding, stand up against an A-Rank entity that had already killed two Sentinels and crippled half a dozen more. He’d seen the kid take a death blow meant for his healer. He’d seen him laugh.

Laugh.

In the face of certain death.

And then he’d seen the Kuzmina girl do something impossible.

"If the world knew a pair of rookie students killed an A-Rank," Kimiko continued, "they would never have a moment of peace."

She looked at Braxton.

"Thank you. For keeping it quiet."

Braxton shook his head. "Don’t thank me. I just signed the paperwork." He glanced toward the door. "Thank her. Her sister was in the splash zone, too. She had just as much to lose if this went public."

Kimiko’s eyes narrowed. "Her?"

The door opened again.

This time, the atmosphere in the room changed completely.

Two suited agents entered first. Black suits. Mirrored sunglasses. The discrete bulge of weapons beneath their jackets. They moved with the cold competence of professionals, their eyes scanning every corner of the room before taking positions on either side of the door.

Sanctions Division.

The President’s personal security detail.

Madame President Seraphina Vance walked into the hospital room.

She was wearing white. Immaculate white business attire that seemed to glow against the sterile gray walls. Her silver-blonde hair was arranged in an elegant chignon, and her ice-blue eyes swept the room with the cold assessment of someone who ruled nations.

The pressure in the room became suffocating.

This wasn’t just a politician. This wasn’t just a Hunter. This was the woman who held the lives of millions in her perfectly manicured hands. The architect of Valoria’s post-Rupture resurrection. The most powerful person on the continent.

And she was standing in a hospital room, looking at a broken eighteen-year-old boy.

Behind her came two more figures.

Celeste Vance looked nothing like the ice princess from the briefing two days ago. She was wearing civilian clothes, comfortable and plain. A bacta-patch covered her left cheek. Her white hair was loose around her shoulders, and her periwinkle eyes were red-rimmed and exhausted. She clutched a bouquet of white lilies against her chest like a shield.

Noah Gray followed last. The bodyguard was dressed in a sharp black suit, her blonde hair pulled back severely. Her face was the professional mask of a protector, but her eyes flickered to Satori’s prone form with something that might have been concern.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

The life support monitor continued its accusatory rhythm.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.