My Scumbag System Chapter 5: The Daily Life of a Reluctant Stalker

The persistent beeping of Natalia’s alarm shattered her dreams. Instinctively, her hand slapped it quiet before she fully woke. Six AM. Training time had arrived.

Rolling onto her back, she fixed her gaze on the ceiling while running through her morning routine—five deep breaths, a mental recap of yesterday’s techniques, and vivid images of today’s targets. Order brought solace. Order equaled strength.

Sitting up, Natalia stretched her arms skyward, savoring the satisfying stretch in muscles that had pushed hard the day before. Her schedule was holy: rise at six, stretch by six-fifteen, eat by six-thirty, train at seven. No space for sloth or alibis, the traits that divided real Hunters from fakes.

Like her stepbrother.

The mere thought of calling that thing ’brother’ twisted her lip in disgust. She’d long grown used to his revolting snores through the wall—the lazy bum’s orchestra who seldom surfaced before noon.

Yet today felt off.

Silence didn’t reign in the house.

Thumping, weighty noises echoed from outdoors. As if a huge object kept slamming into the earth.

Frowning, Natalia shoved her covers away and approached the window. She parted the curtain slightly to glance at the backyard patio, figuring it was a service bot at work.

No, it was Satori.

He seemed to be trying... a workout? His bulky frame lumbered through what might pass for burpees, resembling more a stranded whale flopping toward the ocean. His face glowed crimson, sweat streaming over his heated cheeks. The baggy gray shirt stuck to him, soaked in growing dark patches.

Mesmerized yet sickened, Natalia observed. He wrapped up a set and dropped into plank. His arms shook wildly, his back dipped low, breaths heaving out in misty clouds in the chill air. Every few moments, his body crumpled fully before he grunted and shoved up again, audible even through the pane.

Utterly woeful. Laughably bad. The poorest execution she’d witnessed.

Still, he persisted.

Arms failing, he flipped for crunches. Core quitting, he switched to lunges. Each move grew clumsier, more awkward—the frantic flailing of a frame ignored for years.

It hit Natalia that she’d lingered by the window almost ten minutes, hypnotized by the ghastly spectacle. She retreated, letting the curtain drop.

What scheme was this? A ploy to wow her dad? A desperate bid to dodge getting cut off at eighteen in mere months?

Pointless. Days of workouts couldn’t erase years of indolence. He’d quit shortly. His type always folded.

Natalia faced her closet, picking training gear. Black tights that hugged tight, sports bra, quick-dry shirt. All picked for utility, though she knew they flattered her figure. Her innate talents plus relentless training had forged her into a lethal tool.

Not like certain others.

Midway through braiding her purple locks, the back door creaked open and shut. Labored steps dragged across the kitchen tiles.

Just then, as Natalia entered the hall, Satori appeared from the kitchen.

Up close, the view stunned her. His shirt plastered to his vast bulk, outlining every fold and swell. Dirt from grass streaked his knees and elbows. Red hair matted to his brow, glasses slipping down his nose. Breaths rasped harshly.

Revolting. A grimy, drenched disaster.

Her mouth parted, the usual barb rising fast. "Lazy—"

Yet the word choked off as their eyes locked.

A shift burned in his stare. The weak, begging weakness that always repulsed her had vanished. Now, resolve gleamed there. Intense. His look held firm, no dodging or averting like before.

No words escaped him. He simply shouldered past, trailing earthy sweat stink and labored breaths toward the bathroom.

Stunned still, Natalia lingered, the unsaid slur thick in the space between. For the first time since their parents wed, ’lazy’ rang false. Both knew it.

The bathroom door clicked shut. Water roared from the shower.

Natalia remained in the hall, struck by the heavy quiet in their condo—more deafening than any fight they’d shared.

On the third morning, Natalia insisted to herself she wasn’t waiting to spy. She merely stretched by the window as Satori trudged out back.

Same sorry show—burpees scarcely counting as such, push-ups missing ground contact, squats too shallow. Yet tiny gains appeared. Planks held five seconds more. Form, awful as ever, edged slightly better.

By the fourth morning, weights entered his routine—tiny dumbbells only, yet he wrestled them like they were enormous anvils.

Come the fifth morning, running entered the picture. Or an attempt at it. He circled their humble backyard over and over, his bulky frame lumbering with the poise of a drugged bear. Still, he kept at it.

On the sixth morning, Natalia caught herself silently tweaking his posture in her thoughts.

It grated on her. His wasteful movements ached to behold. That godawful form forced him to labor doubly for pathetic gains.

Not that it mattered to her.

After the tenth morning, additional shifts stood out inescapably. The kitchen—her former warzone in ceaseless turf skirmishes—stayed immaculate whenever she stepped inside. Heaps of takeout boxes had disappeared, swapped for prepped containers brimming with plain proteins and greens.

They seldom crossed paths. Rare encounters stuck to a fresh, wordless routine: mute nod, swift dodge. No barbs. No jeers. No remarks.

It felt... serene. Eerily so.

"What’s going on with your stepbrother?"