The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism novel Chapter 132

Chapter 132: 132 | A Word That Carries Weight

"And a sauna," Sloane added, reading over my shoulder with her chin resting on my arm. Her breath was warm against my skin. "The 1-A house has one too. My friend Mira from prep was talking about it last week, said her older sister graduated from Halloran two years ago and still talks about the bath house like it was a religious experience."

I kept reading. The letter explained that each apartment came furnished with what it called ’standard mid-tier accommodations,’ which from the photos looked like perfectly acceptable furniture that would be completely fine for anyone who didn’t have strong opinions about thread counts or mattress firmness. Bed frame, desk, chair, dresser, small couch. All clean, modern, and functional.

However.

If a student wished to furnish their own apartment, they could decline the standard package by notifying the housing office before July seventh. The space would then be delivered empty, ready for whatever the student wanted to put in it.

Diane plucked that particular page out of my hand before I’d finished the paragraph.

"July seventh," she said, reading the date with the tone of someone who’d already opened her calendar app. "That gives us three weeks. We’re going shopping this weekend."

"We don’t have to—"

"Both of my babies are going to the best Hero Academy in the world. They are not sleeping on mid-tier furniture." She said ’mid-tier’ the way most people said ’contaminated.’ Like the concept personally offended her Southern sensibilities. "We’ll do a full day. Saturday. Furniture, bedding, organizational pieces for the closets, bathroom accessories. Your father left money specifically earmarked for education expenses, and I have opinions about how that money should be spent."

She was talking about the original Lukas’s father. Marcus Belmont, who’d apparently set up a trust before he died that Diane had been managing for nine years. The guilt of spending a dead Hero’s money on furniture for his son’s body, currently occupied by a transmigrant with a gacha system, was a specific flavor of existential discomfort I didn’t have time to unpack right now.

"I can just use the standard stuff," I said, knowing full well this was a losing argument.

"You can, and you will not." Diane set her coffee down with the finality of a gavel. "Sloane, tell him."

Sloane hadn’t moved from her spot pressed against my arm, still reading through the housing details with the intensity she brought to combat analysis. Her blue eyes scanned the floor plan of the 1-A house, memorizing exits and room dimensions the way she memorized opponent weaknesses. "Mom’s right. If you’re going to be living somewhere for two years, you want a space that feels like yours. Not institutional. The standard stuff is fine but it screams ’I don’t care about where I live,’ and people notice that. Image matters at Halloran."

"Since when do you care about image?"

"Since my mother runs a Hero PR agency and I’ve been absorbing her philosophies through osmosis for seventeen years whether I wanted to or not." Sloane turned the page. "Also, I want a good mattress. Like, genuinely good. Not whatever seventy-dollar foam block they’re putting in those rooms."

"Your mother just said we’re going shopping Saturday."

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