My Scumbag System-Chapter 280: The Sunken Necropolis and Its Unfortunate Wake-Up Call

The pre-dawn air bit into my skin like a hungry ghost, each gust carrying the salt-stink of the harbor and something else underneath—something metallic and wrong that I couldn’t quite name.

It was 5:00 AM, and the world was still wrapped in darkness so thick you could almost touch it, the kind of darkness that made you feel like the sun had simply given up on this corner of existence.

The ferry idled at the dock, its engines growling low in my chest, the vibration traveling up through the concrete and into my boots until I could feel it in my teeth. Sodium lights cast everything in sickly orange, turning our faces into death masks and making the water look like liquid tar.

Our ragtag group of Onyx Hounds huddled together in their new tactical gear, a mix of sleep-deprived zombies and wide-eyed rookies who looked like they might puke from nerves.

The gear itself was standard issue—black tactical suits with reinforced plating at the joints and chest, nothing fancy, nothing personalized. It made us look more uniform than we felt.

Some of them hadn’t slept at all, their eyes hollow and darting. Others had slept too much, their bodies still heavy with the weight of dreams they’d rather have stayed in.

I leaned against a metal crate, surveying my people. The cold of the steel seeped through my jacket, but I didn’t move. Comfort was for people who could afford to look weak.

Juan was half-asleep on his feet, his datapad clutched to his chest like a security blanket, the screen casting a pale glow across his slack features. Every few seconds his head would dip forward, then snap back up as some primal part of his brain remembered where he was.

His hair was a disaster, sticking up at angles that defied geometry, and there was a coffee stain on his collar that he clearly hadn’t noticed.

Raphael paced back and forth, cracking his knuckles with the subtlety of a jackhammer. Each pop echoed in the early morning quiet like small gunshots. His jaw was set, his eyes burning with that particular brand of aggression that couldn’t tell the difference between courage and stupidity.

He wanted to fight something. Anything. The waiting was killing him more than the Gate ever could.

Isabelle stood perfectly still, her wine-red hair pulled back in a severe ponytail that left the elegant lines of her neck exposed. She looked like she was mentally rehearsing fifty different ways to kill a man with a spoon.

Her eyes were fixed on some middle distance, seeing something the rest of us couldn’t. Occasionally her fingers would twitch, running through phantom spear movements. Even in stillness, she was training.

Skylar had her headphones on, the oversized cans swallowing her ears, but I noticed she wasn’t playing any music—just using them as a barrier against social interaction. Smart girl. Her indigo hair looked almost black in the dim light, the pink streaks reduced to dark shadows.

She caught me looking and raised one pierced eyebrow in silent challenge. I held her gaze for exactly two seconds, then moved on. We had an understanding now, her and I. The kiss on the balcony had changed the equation between us, but neither of us was ready to calculate what that meant.

Natalia stood slightly apart from the others, her arms crossed, her purple eyes scanning the dock with the same territorial awareness of a cat in unfamiliar territory. Our official cover story as siblings had created an interesting dynamic. In public, we maintained a careful distance.

In private... well. The memory of last night’s "study session" still lingered on my skin like phantom fingerprints.

Emi bounced on her heels nearby, her blue hair’s antenna strands quivering with nervous energy.

Soomin stood at the very edge of our group, her pink hair braided back for combat, clutching her new silver gauntlets like talismans against the darkness. The good luck charm from her hometown was visible at her neck, the tiny seashell gleaming faintly in the dock lights. She looked like she wanted to disappear into the shadows, but those blue gradient eyes were alert, tracking every movement around us.

The Argent Sentinels arrived in a tight formation, looking like they’d stepped out of a damn recruitment poster. Their armor gleamed under the dock lights, all sterling silver and aegis blue, polished to a mirror shine that probably took hours of their precious beauty sleep. Each piece was custom-fitted, personalized, expensive as hell. Even their boots looked like they’d never touched actual dirt.

Professor Petrova walked at their head, her back ramrod straight, her silver-blonde hair catching the orange light and turning it to something almost gold. She hadn’t slept—I could see it in the faint shadows under her eyes—but unlike the rest of us mere mortals, she wore exhaustion like war paint. It made her look more dangerous, not less. Her riding crop tapped against her thigh in a steady rhythm, like a metronome counting down to violence.

Julian was beside her, his golden hair perfectly styled despite the ungodly hour. He moved with that particular brand of aristocratic grace that came from a lifetime of believing the world owed him everything. His sapphire eyes found me across the dock, and the hatred in them was almost beautiful in its purity.

I cracked open a can of Thunder-Strike: Blue Raspberry. The liquid inside glowed an unnatural neon blue, like someone had melted down a glow stick and added sugar. The hiss of the can opening drew a few glances, but I ignored them.

"Why are you drinking that poison?" Juan mumbled, his eyes barely open, his voice thick with exhaustion.

I held the can up, label facing out, and took a long swig. The taste hit my tongue like a chemical spill—artificial raspberry fighting with something that reminded me of battery acid and regret. It was the kind of beverage that would probably show up as a controlled substance in certain countries.

"Micro-sponsorship," I replied, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "Fifty credits every time I drink one in a public space. It tastes like melted plastic and heart palpitations, but money is money."

Juan stared at me like I’d grown a second head. His datapad had slipped slightly in his grip, forgotten. "You’re literally poisoning yourself for pocket change."

"Welcome to capitalism, sleepyhead." I tapped the can against his forehead, the aluminum cold against his skin. He flinched, blinking rapidly.

"Wake up. Dead men don’t earn."