Divine Milking System-Chapter 13 | Stepping on Toes

I left the gym at six-fifteen, took a shower that involved discovering my shampoo was three-in-one and smelled like generic "sport," then put on the Obsidian uniform again.

The blazer still pulled at my stomach. The pants still felt like they were designed for someone with different proportions entirely.

I had time for breakfast before Hunter Theory at eight.

The dining hall at six-forty-five was a different beast than dinner. Quieter. Less crowded. Students who either needed early caffeine or were trying to establish routines they’d abandon by week two.

The same glass walls and ocean view, but the morning light made everything look cleaner, newer, more optimistic.

The breakfast setup was buffet style. Scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes, waffles, oatmeal, yogurt, granola, fresh fruit, toast. Coffee machines with enough settings to justify a manual. Juice dispensers. A waffle iron station where you could DIY if you hated efficiency.

And it was free.

Well, not free. Subsidized by the academy until after the first monthly evaluation, when we’d all get ranked and assigned point values that determined our meal plans going forward.

The whole system was designed to enforce a meritocracy from day one. Rich kids and lottery winners both started at zero points. Everyone ate the same food. Used the same facilities. Had access to the same simulation chambers.

In theory, anyway.

In practice, the guild kids still had better uniforms, better equipment in their dorm rooms, and family connections that mattered more than any point system.

But for breakfast? Yeah. We were all eating the same scrambled eggs.

I grabbed a plate and loaded it with protein. Four strips of bacon, two sausage links, scrambled eggs, and a banana because I should probably eat something with vitamins. Then coffee. Black. Hot enough to hurt.

I scanned the dining hall while waiting for the coffee to finish brewing.

Found them near the windows.

Belle, Naomi, and Marc, sitting at a table with their trays, already mid-conversation. Belle was laughing at something Marc said. Naomi was picking at her food with the kind of nervous energy that suggested she hadn’t slept well.

I grabbed my coffee and started walking toward them.

Then someone stepped directly into my path.

I stopped.

Didn’t spill the coffee, which was a minor miracle considering how full the cup was.

The guy who’d walked into me was shorter than me by a couple inches, maybe five-seven, with messy dark brown hair that looked like he’d forgotten to brush it and wide expressive eyes that currently looked horrified.

"My bad," I said automatically.

The guy looked up at me. Blinked. Started to apologize in rapid-fire Spanish-accented English about not watching where he was going, how clumsy he was, how he should’ve been paying attention.

I tuned out the apology halfway through the second sentence.

Because I recognized him.

Javier Mendoza.

Shonen protagonist energy wrapped in a first-year’s body. The kind of kid who’d cry after inspirational speeches and train until his hands bled and somehow, against all odds, end up saving the day through sheer refusing-to-give-up stubbornness.

The original main character of this stupid novel.

The one who was supposed to stumble his way into friendships, rivalries, romantic complications, and eventually graduate as someone important enough to matter.

Javier had a massive toe.

And I was about to step all over it.

Not maliciously. Just practically. Because the women he was supposed to build relationships with over the next three years? I needed them in the next three days. Belle, Naomi, maybe even Blair Davenport if I got desperate enough.

The entire cast of female characters who were supposed to orbit Javier’s earnest underdog arc was now my potential survival pool.

There was no version of this where I didn’t take something from him.

Which, morally speaking, probably made me an asshole.

But morally speaking, I also had a little over 2 days to live unless I convinced women to let me drink from their bodies, so my moral compass was already pointing in some fucked-up direction.

"It’s fine," I said, cutting off Javier’s apology. "Happens."

Javier’s face did the thing where relief and gratitude mixed together into something almost painful to watch.

He nodded enthusiastically, wished me a good breakfast, and hurried off toward the food line with his notebook tucked under one arm.

I watched him go then walked to the table where Belle, Naomi, and Marc were sitting.

"Morning," I said.

Belle looked up first. She’d pulled her light blue hair into a high ponytail this morning, which somehow made the asymmetric bangs frame her face even better. The Obsidian uniform on her was borderline obscene. Not because she’d modified it, exactly, but because whoever designed these uniforms either didn’t account for bodies like hers or actively encouraged the problem.

The blazer fit her shoulders fine but pulled across her chest in a way that made the yellow dress shirt underneath work overtime. The top two buttons were undone because anything else would’ve been structural engineering. The black pleated skirt sat high on her waist and ended at mid-thigh, showing off long legs wrapped in black tights.

She looked sexy.

And she knew it.

"Morning," Belle said. Her tone was neutral but her eyes did a quick assessment of my tray, my coffee, my general state of existence. Whatever conclusion she reached, she didn’t share it.

Naomi smiled at me. It was a soft, genuine smile that made her whole face change.

She looked tired.

Naomi was tall. Taller than Belle by a couple inches, maybe five-ten, with a slender build that the uniform somehow made look even more elegant. Her pink and black striped hair fell loose down her back, past her shoulders, almost to her waist. The colors were vivid in the morning light. Her pink eyes were large and kind and currently a little puffy like she’d been crying or hadn’t slept.

The uniform on her fit differently than it did on Belle. Where Belle’s curves fought against the fabric, Naomi’s height and proportions made everything look tailored. The blazer hung properly. The skirt was the same regulation length but on her longer legs it looked almost conservative.

Almost.

Because her chest still strained the yellow shirt in ways that suggested the academy’s uniform designer either hated women or loved them too much. The top three buttons were fastened but the fabric still pulled. Her black tights were the same as Belle’s but on Naomi they emphasized legs that went on forever.

Who the fuck designed these uniforms?

Was the academy director a pervert?