Divine Milking System

Chapter 407: 407 | The System Can’t Quantify This

"What about the redhead? About this tall, looks like she could buy this hospital and turn it into a shoe closet?"

The nurse’s professional composure flickered for half a second. "Miss Davenport was treated and released approximately twelve hours ago. She was... rather insistent about leaving."

Of course she was. Blair Davenport didn’t do hospitals. Blair Davenport didn’t do vulnerability or weakness or anything that might suggest she was a human being with normal human limitations. She’d walked out of this building with second-degree burns covering half her body because staying would have meant admitting she needed help. I could picture her signing discharge papers against medical advice with that signature frost-queen glare, daring anyone to try stopping her.

The mental image of it made me smile anyway.

"I need to alert the doctor that you’re conscious," the nurse said, already moving toward the door. "He’ll want to examine you before we can discuss your treatment plan. There’s a lot to cover regarding your recovery timeline. Is there anything you need in the meantime?"

"Water. Food. Information about what happened after I passed out, in that order." My throat felt like someone had run sandpaper down it, and my stomach was making noises that suggested it was considering filing a formal complaint with management.

She nodded and turned toward the door. The view from behind was just as good as the view from the front. White fabric stretched across hips that swayed with each step, and the skirt really was unreasonably short. The hemline stopped mid-thigh, leaving long expanses of leg that disappeared into those white sneakers. Someone in this hospital’s HR department either deserved a raise or needed to be fired, depending on which set of policies you prioritized.

"One more thing," I called out before she could leave.

She paused at the door, looking back over her shoulder. The movement pulled her uniform tight across her chest in a way that was probably unintentional but absolutely appreciated. Physics doing its usual excellent work.

"What’s your name?"

Surprise registered on her face. Small, subtle, but there. Patients probably didn’t ask that question very often. We were bodies to be processed, charts to be updated, problems to be solved and moved through the system. Names made it personal. Names made us people instead of medical ID numbers.

"Sakura," she said after a moment.

"Japanese?"

"Half. My mother’s side." Her lips curved into something warmer than the professional smile she’d been wearing earlier. Something that reached her eyes this time. "Is that relevant to your treatment plan?"

"No. Just curious." I let my head fall back against the pillow. The movement made the room spin slightly, and I closed my eyes against the vertigo. "Thanks, Sakura. For the drugs especially. They’re doing excellent work."

I heard her laugh as the door closed behind her. A real one this time. Small victories.

The System updated in the corner of my vision.

Current Attraction: 12%

Four percent gain from thirty seconds of conversation. Not bad for someone who looked like he’d lost an argument with a meat grinder. The path to survival was paved with small increments like this. Small moments of human connection that translated into percentages on an invisible screen only I could see. I’d collect every scrap I could.

One day. Six hours. Fourteen minutes.

Make that thirteen now. Time refused to pause just because I’d gotten my legs broken in three places.

I needed to extract someone within the next thirty hours or I’d die. Again. For real this time. No mysterious old men appearing in fever dreams to dispense cryptic advice about leaping off metaphorical cliffs. No System abilities left to burn through for temporary salvation. Just regular death. The permanent kind. The sort where my consciousness stopped existing entirely and everyone who’d fought beside me in that gate would spend the rest of their lives knowing I’d saved them only to waste my own survival through catastrophic time mismanagement.

The thought should have terrified me. Should have triggered panic. Should have kicked my brain into the cold, ruthless calculation mode that had defined my first weeks trapped in this absurd situation.

But all I felt was tired.

Tired in a way that went deeper than the physical damage. Tired of running. Tired of scheming. Tired of treating every woman I met as a potential resource to be exploited. Naomi had cried when she heard I was stable. Belle had taken notes on my recovery timeline because that was how Belle processed things she cared about too much to examine directly. Blair had kissed me in a collapsed cave and then walked out of this hospital with burns that needed weeks of treatment because showing weakness wasn’t in her vocabulary.

The System had categories for this. Extraction profile. Essence tier. Ability theft compatibility. Devotion percentages that unlocked bonus features. I’d memorized every mechanic because that’s what kept me breathing past my death clock.

But somewhere between the first time Naomi apologized for existing and the moment Belle admitted her real name wasn’t actually Fox, I’d stopped seeing the numbers. Started seeing the person underneath. Naomi’s quiet strength wrapped in self-doubt. Belle’s greed covering terror that she’d end up like her mother. Blair’s perfection hiding scars that ran deeper than anything physical.

They weren’t resources. They were just people who’d made the catastrophic mistake of thinking I was worth saving.

The door swung open.

The man who entered looked comfortable in authority. Gray threading through dark hair, cut with precision. Lab coat over pressed slacks and a button-down that said department head without needing to announce it. Rectangular glasses caught the fluorescent light as he studied me with the kind of clinical focus that came from years of seeing hunters wheeled through these doors.

Some made it out. Most didn’t.

"Mr. Monroe." His voice carried the weight of too many difficult conversations. "I’m Dr. Hayashi. Your treatment’s been my responsibility since they brought you in."

"Doc." I didn’t bother trying to sit up this time. "How bad is it?"

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