The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism novel Chapter 438

Chapter 438: 438 | The Psychosocial Benefits of Boyz Day [CASTLE BONUS]

The knock came at seven forty-three on a Saturday morning, which was a war crime under any reasonable interpretation of the Geneva Conventions.

I had been awake since six because Demigod did not care about weekends and my brain had been running scenarios about the Crucible at one hundred Intelligence for ninety minutes straight while my body lay perfectly still in expensive sheets that Diane had selected and that still carried the faint botanical traces of yesterday’s visit.

The Bond Resonance had tracked Sloane through her morning run at five thirty, her shower at six twelve, and her current position in the 1-A cafeteria where she radiated the specific contentment of someone eating a stack of protein pancakes while wearing the oversized hoodie she stole from my closet three days ago and refused to return because it smelled like me and she found this unacceptable yet also non-negotiable.

I had plans for the day. Review Percy’s insurance appendix. Test Spectral Reach range limits at Field Zeta. Maybe call Diane about the Reyes follow-up. Definitely not think about the photograph Felicity sent last night that my visual cortex had helpfully preserved in four-K resolution behind my eyelids.

The knock came again. Three rapid impacts with a fist rather than knuckles, a percussive signature I recognized.

"Belmont. Open up. Emergency."

Caden Holt’s voice carried the register of someone who had been awake for eleven minutes and considered this a personal accomplishment worthy of celebration.

I crossed the room in two strides, unlocked the deadbolt, and opened the door to find Caden leaning against the doorframe in a Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned over a white tank top, board shorts, and slides that looked like they’d survived a skateboard accident. His blonde hair achieved new heights of defiance against gravity. His hazel eyes held the specific brightness of someone about to ruin my entire schedule.

"What emergency."

"Boyz Day."

I stared at him for a full second while my one hundred Intelligence processed whether I had experienced a stroke or whether Caden Holt had genuinely just said those words to my face at seven forty-three on a Saturday morning. "That’s not a thing."

"It is absolutely a thing." Caden pushed past me into the apartment without waiting for an invitation, performed a quick survey of the space, and dropped onto my sage reading chair with the boneless confidence of a golden retriever claiming a couch. "It’s a documented cultural phenomenon. Percy has research."

Percy Mendoza materialized in the doorway like he’d been waiting for his cue, which he had, because Percy waited for cues with the patience of a predator and the punctuality of a train schedule. His navy blue hair was combed flat, his cargo shorts were ironed, and he held a printed document in both hands with the gravity of someone presenting a dissertation defense.

The words dissolved into undifferentiated noise, a wall of academic citation that my brain cataloged as wah wah wah wah peer bonding wah wah cortisol wah wah something about the Finnish military wah wah. Percy continued without pause because Percy did not require feedback to sustain output, only the awareness that someone occupied the same physical space as his mouth.

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