"I gave you new balls and a cock to fuck beautiful people, not yourself," Milfy muttered, perched on Rusty's shoulder like a little parasite.
Rusty rolled his eyes and shoved the door open, stepping out of the damn hellhole.
No shoes. No dignity. Just reeking clothes that clung to his skin like punishment. He scanned the alley for anything—slippers, a crate, even a torn rag to wrap around his feet—but found nothing. The stench hit him next, thick and sour, curling in his nostrils like rot. Whatever this place was—a basement, a squat, a dungeon—it wasn't meant for people to crawl out of.
He muttered under his breath. "Hell of a gigolo life. Thousands in payment, but still walking out like a stray dog."
His stomach growled. Pride did too, louder.
This isn't rock bottom. Rock bottom was still better than this.
He stepped barefoot into the filth, grimacing as something wet squelched beneath his heel.
"See, the memories are foggy," he said, biting down his irritation. "So at least tell me where the hell we're going to get food."
"I'm hungry too," Milfy offered, one of his slimy tentacles pointing down the alley. "Keep walking. We'll find something."
Rusty stopped. Turned his head just enough to glare. "That's your help? Telling me to walk forward? You think I can't manage that on my own?"
He didn't expect much from the jellyfish freak—but somehow, Milfy kept setting the bar lower.
"Ingrate," Milfy sniffed, the tips of his tentacles twitching. "Here I am, helping. Then you talk like this and ruin my mood."
Rusty barked a laugh. "You have moods now? Jellyfish get pissy too?"
He shook his head and kept walking, fists clenched. "And do I even have money to pay for anything?"
The question landed heavy.
Shit.
He froze and patted his pockets. Jacket—empty. Pants—nothing but lint and regret.
No wallet. No ID. No idea what the hell he was doing in this alley with a sarcastic jellyfish riding shotgun.
Rusty kept patting himself down like a desperate pickpocket.
Nothing.
No crumpled bills. No credit card. Not even a coin to flip for luck.
His jaw tightened. How the fuck do I start from zero with a smartass sea alien system and no shoes?
"I had clothes. You could've slipped some cash in too," he muttered, pacing forward, each step a slap against cold, greasy concrete. "This some kind of twisted lesson?"
Milfy shrugged—or the jellyfish version of it. "You didn't ask for money. You asked for a body. Functional. I delivered."
Rusty didn't answer. He couldn't. Not when the sour mix of sweat and mold stuck to his skin, crawling up his back like regret.
This wasn't a new life. This was a punchline.
The alley ended in a street, barely cleaner than the one he'd crawled out of. Broken neon signs flickered overhead. A rusted vending machine stood at the corner, humming like it was the last survivor of a war. A cracked mirror on the side showed him exactly what he looked like—sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, hair like he'd wrestled a static storm and lost.
He looked homeless. He was homeless.
Even though it was the same face as his, this one looked like the malnourished version. Who the fuck would pay for this to be a gigolo? Maybe that crazy woman—only her.
Milfy nudged his jaw with a tentacle. "You know, you used to be hotter."
"Thanks for the reminder," Rusty muttered.
His stomach growled again. Louder this time.
"You're seriously telling me you brought me here and didn't think food was a priority?"
"You didn't specify hunger," Milfy said with a mock-innocent blink. "Besides, suffering builds character. Right now, you have none."
Rusty glared. "Keep talking. I'll fry you in garlic oil the second I find a pan."
Milfy snorted—bubbled?—whatever sound passed for jellyfish laughter.
Rusty stepped closer to the vending machine, pressed his palm to the glass.
Behind it: rows of sealed protein bars, expired sodas, instant noodles that might still be edible.
He exhaled, jaw clenched.
"Break it?" he asked without looking.
"You could. Or you could ask me nicely for help."
"Milfy."
"Rusty."
A beat.
Then Rusty drew back and drove his fist into the glass.
It shattered like his patience.
Blood trickled from his knuckles as he reached inside and grabbed two protein bars—one for Milfy, one for himself.
He didn't hesitate.
The sugar hit his tongue and numbed the ache in his jaw. Didn't taste good. Didn't matter.
He handed the second bar to Milfy without a word.
He'd grown up with nothing. An orphan scraping by on whatever life gave him. Even then, he'd never stolen a damn thing. He worked. Hustled. Earned what he could. When he couldn't, the orphanage fed him.
'Now look at you. Barefoot, bleeding, robbing a vending machine like some street rat,' he taunted himself.
"This world has no law," Milfy said, peeling the wrapper with a tentacle. "So technically, it's not robbery."
Rusty took another bite and stared down the street.
He didn't reply.
Not because Milfy was wrong—because he didn't know if the damn jellyfish was right.
He didn't know this world at all.
The wind kicked dust across the sidewalk.
"Where do we need to go?" Rusty asked, eyes locked on the empty road ahead. "You said my mission is to tame the beast. Where do I find her? What kind of beast is she? Is it even a she? Give me the damn details."
Milfy crunched down on his protein bar like it owed him something. "For now, you just hustle. With time, you'll meet the beast. This isn't a hit-and-run mission where I drop you in and boom—you tame her. You're living here now. Hustle. Survive. Put in some damn effort."
Rusty stopped walking, glare sharp enough to cut through smoke. "Did you put in any effort? You said I'd get women, privilege, and all this 'good stuff.' What did I get? Jackshit. Just assault."
Milfy floated sideways with a scoff. "And what about you? Couldn't even handle a Cinnamon Tusker. You think you're gonna tame a beast without leveling up?"