Within a blink, something flashed—blinding, soundless—and everything went still.
The next moment, Rusty stood barefoot in a space that barely passed for a room. It smelled of decay, looked like a place even rats would avoid—and somehow, he was supposed to live here?
Aching limbs dragged under invisible weight, yet a strange calm bled into the silence.
His bare skin prickled in the stagnant air. Dried blood clung to his cheek like a stubborn stain, and faint chain marks lingered on his ankle, neck, and wrists—ghosts of where he'd been bound.
Milfy's words kept looping in his skull.
He scanned the place, jaw tightening.
"This... is where I'm staying?"
"Yes, you will," Milfy answered coolly, perched on his shoulder like a smug parasite. "This is the house of the person whose identity you'll be using."
Rusty stared. "How the hell does a premium gigolo live in a dump even rats would turn their noses at?"
The air reeked—of rot, mold, something worse. A single wooden cupboard slumped in the corner like it had given up on life. Trash covered the floor. Insects skittered over heaps of junk, and he was pretty sure something was decomposing nearby.
He'd grown up with nothing in his previous life, but even that felt like royalty compared to this.
That crazy woman paid good money for sex that never even happened… and he was willing to bet the other clients weren't cheap either. So why the hell did this place reek like a landfill?
"The man gambles away his gigolo money," Milfy said, stretching his tentacles like he was sunbathing. "So yeah. That's what you get."
Rusty's fingers twitched, fighting the urge to slap the smug bastard off his shoulder.
This system's not just sarcastic—he's deranged.
And now he was part of it. Signed into the madness with no lifeline in sight.
Crossing him isn't an option. That's how people end up dead—or worse.
He exhaled slowly. "Can you explain more about this world? You said it's a world of crimes. But don't crimes happen everywhere?"
"This world has no law. No order. Understand the difference." Milfy's voice didn't waver. "No cops. No policies. People do whatever they want. Overpower whoever they want."
Rusty blinked at him. "Still sounds like a normal world. People break laws everywhere."
"With time, you'll learn." Milfy chuckled like he'd just cracked a riddle only he found funny.
Rusty rubbed his temples. "You're a top-tier system, right?"
Milfy nodded, smug as ever.
"Then why the hell did you give me the identity of a man who gambles and sells his dick? Could've given me someone better. A clean slate. A decent life."
He couldn't figure it out. Why would a so-called top-tier system set him up in a garbage heap?
"I repaired your dick. That's the most expensive thing. What else could compare?" Milfy's head tilted. He looked genuinely baffled, like it was some million-dollar quiz question.
Rusty groaned. "Why does everything start and end with my dick?"
If this went on, it wouldn't be long before he started finding the damn thing fascinating enough to turn gay.
Not that he had anything against gay people... but he sure as hell didn't want to be talking about dicks every other breath.
"Didn't it all start with your dick in the first place?" Milfy's grin widened, pale as a ghost and twice as haunting.
Rusty didn't even try to argue. His stomach grumbled loud enough to remind him of something far more urgent. "I'm hungry."
"Then eat. Why're you telling me? I don't babysit."
Rusty gritted his teeth. "There's nothing to eat here. Not even crumbs."
He nudged an empty can with his toe. It rolled, clanged against a rusted pipe, and something hissed in the shadows. He didn't want to know what.
Milfy yawned, lounging across his shoulder like he didn't just dump him in a living trash heap. "Figure it out. You're a man now. A gigolo with a brand-new, high-performance dick."
Rusty turned slowly, eyes sharp enough to cut steel. "Say 'dick' one more time."
Milfy smirked.
He stepped back, jaw clenching as the rotting floorboards creaked beneath his heel. His stomach twisted again. Ineed food. If I don't eat, I'll pass out. If I pass out here, I might wake up with something chewing my face.
"I thought you systems had a guide or tutorial or something." His voice cracked slightly. "You know, to help the human host survive their first fucking day?"
Milfy floated upward lazily, circling Rusty like a drunk halo. "You'll manage. Besides, you've got memories. Check the brain archive."
Rusty paused. "Brain archive?"
The moment the thought crossed his mind, a wave of dizziness hit him. His vision swirled—then locked onto fragments, like broken TV signals flickering across his mind.
A rundown bar.
Cheap perfume.
Someone groaning in a bathroom stall.
Cash exchanging hands in dark corners.
A gang insignia carved on a forearm.
He stumbled back, hand bracing against the wall. Filth coated his palm. "What the hell…"
"Welcome to your new memories," Milfy chirped. "They're messy, violent, sexually excessive—and painfully real."
Rusty's heart pounded. He pressed his fingers to his temple as the blur of the man he was now began to piece itself together.
He wasn't just a loser.
He was hated. Hunted.
And apparently, in debt.
"This guy owes half the underground," Rusty muttered.
"Which means you do." Milfy grinned. "Congratulations. You're now a wanted man with no money, no allies, and a reputation for fucking and fleeing."
Rusty glared. "And this is your idea of a good starting point?"
Milfy's shoulders shrugged mid-air. "Character development."
"Character development?" He barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. "What's next, a welcome party from the debt collectors?"
"Probably. You should find pants."
Rusty glanced down at himself—still naked, still caked in grime and dried blood. He sighed, the weight of it all pressing down on his spine.
This is hell. It's not even subtle about it.
He scanned the room again. There had to be something wearable—anything. A crumpled jacket and pair of pants lay beneath a broken chair. He yanked them free. They reeked of piss and rotting meat but covered him. Barely.
"I swear, if this jacket and these pants give me lice, I'm burning you with them."
Milfy beamed. "Wouldn't be the first time."
Rusty didn't respond. He headed for the door—barefoot, exhausted—knowing he had to step out and find something to eat.
Because one thing was clear.
He wasn't about to die naked and starving in this shithole.
"Fuck my life."