My Scumbag System Chapter 3: The Day the Pig Learned to Cook and My World Turned Upside Down

The heavy door clicked shut behind Natalia. Her shoulders throbbed from three exhausting hours of telekinetic training. Coach Haverson had driven her beyond normal limits today, forcing her to raise increasingly heavy items until her arms nearly buckled.

Yet the weariness faded in an instant. Something felt terribly off.

Silence prevailed. That marked the initial warning. No blasts echoed from his typical brainless game. No grating tunes poured from behind his door. The constant audio backdrop of her worthless stepbrother's life had vanished entirely.

The next alert came from the scent—or its total absence. The foul haze of spoiled eats, filthy garments, and sweat stench that always lingered was gone, supplanted by a light, fresh whiff of lemon cleaner.

"What... the... hell...?"

The kitchen shone immaculately. The sink bore no grimy plates. No half-spent chip packets littered the counters.

Natalia dashed to the west wing, heading straight for his bedroom. If Dad spotted the revolting chaos in that pigsty, repercussions loomed. For them both. Father had hammered home that preserving the condo's neatness fell on everyone equally.

She skipped the knock—as always. Bursting the door wide, a sharp barb hovered on her lips.

And froze solid.

Cleanliness ruled the space. Three black garbage sacks waited, neatly knotted near the entrance. The bed lay perfectly made. The floor stood revealed. Truly bare, purged of its standard junk and soiled attire.

And smack in the room's middle stood Satori.

Down on the ground he pushed, arms quaking wildly in the effort for one push-up. His damp t-shirt plastered to his back, tracing the jiggling fat folds with every straining heave.

His arms failed; he slammed face-down on the rug with a muffled thump. "Fuck."

There he sprawled, winded and drenched, sweat forming puddles as though he'd endured a marathon rather than one pathetic push-up try.

Natalia hovered in the entryway, brain stalled.

What madness gripped this place? The slob should lounge across his bed daily, cramming food, fixated on hentai, ogling her backside when he believed her unaware.

Clean quarters didn't fit his routine.

He DAMN wasn't meant to work out, that's for sure.

He remained oblivious to her. Just sprawled on the floor, panting hard, mumbling quietly.

"Pathetic," she uttered at last, the term landing limp sans her normal spite.

Satori stiffened. Grunting, he flipped to his back and peered up.

A icy worm twisted in Natalia's belly. His gaze. Altered. Amber tint persisted behind those hefty lenses, but the intensity shone brand new.

"Natalia," he uttered, voice oddly richer. "You’re home early."

Arms folded tight. "What are you doing?"

"Push-ups." Up he sat. "Well, push-up. Singular. This body is even weaker than I expected."

This body? What strange turn of phrase?

"I meant what are you doing to your room? And the kitchen?" Gesturing wildly, she added, "What is this?"

Grasping the bed edge, he dragged himself upright. Towering full height, his frame dominated—vast in stature and width. Tall he always was, factually speaking, yet his slouched habits hid how he overshadowed her by almost twelve inches.

"Spring cleaning," came his shrugging reply. "Or whatever season it is now. I wasn’t aware I needed your damn permission."

Natalia blinked hard. Never before had the pig retorted so boldly. Customarily, he'd stutter excuses or drool compliments on her training-fresh allure. Such bluntness? Never.

"You don’t," she shot back. "It’s just weird. You’re acting weird."

"I’ve decided to make some changes," he declared, snatching a towel off the desk chair to mop his brow. "No more wasting my life. I’m going to get in shape, clean up my act. Maybe even pass the entrance exam."

Natalia scoffed. "You? A Hunter? Don’t make me laugh, Pig. You’re a Zero. You couldn’t hunt a hamburger unless someone delivered it to your door."

"You might be surprised what I’m capable of," he murmured gently.

"Whatever," she dismissed with a flippant wave. "Just keep the noise down. I have studying to do."

She pivoted to depart, desperate to flee the odd vibe swelling between them.

"Natalia."

At the threshold she halted, refusing to turn.

"I made dinner. It’s in the oven. Nothing fancy, just some grilled chicken and vegetables. There’s enough for both of us if you’re hungry."

Satori... cooked? Cooking wasn't his thing—ever.

"I’m not hungry," she fibbed, her stomach betraying her with a loud rumble.

His deep chuckle pursued her along the hallway.

Her stepbrother was acting all kinds of wrong. It felt like the pitiful loser she remembered had been gutted and swapped out with... forget it.

She shut her bedroom door and slumped back against it. None of this added up. Folks didn't transform in a single night. Least of all someone like Satori.

Under her door crept the rich scent of roasted garlic and herbs, setting her stomach rumbling once more. She hadn't touched food since breakfast.

"Fuck," she muttered, slipping down to the floor in a sit.

His cooking was off-limits. She'd grab takeout, whip up a sandwich, or go hungry. No way she'd hand him that victory.

But sitting there as the tantalizing aroma of genuine home-cooked meal intensified, a chilling notion bubbled up.

What if the worthless, repulsive freeloader bunking across the hallway was really striving to become... human?