Rusty limped down the cracked pavement, every step dragging heat through his bones. First that cinnamon Tusker, then the psycho chick. Everyone wanted a piece of him—and not in a fun way.
And Milfy wasn't helping either. That little freak fried his brain with every word.
How the hell was he supposed to be some master beast tamer on his first damn try? Wasn't that supposed to be a skill you grind over time?
"That's why I'm giving you as much time as you want." Milfy plopped onto his shoulder again.
"Stop reading my mind." Privacy, apparently, didn't exist here—not even in his own damn head.
He'd come expecting to bang his way through this world. But so far, it was life—and this twisted-ass system—that had him bent over every which way.
"So, where should we go now?"
Rusty let out a long breath and shook his head. "You're asking me? I just got dumped into this place. I'm supposed to know the roads, the rules, the level-up mechanics—hell, even the name of this city? You haven't told me shit."
"Stop moaning. I've had enough of you already." One of Milfy's slimy tentacles slapped his busted lip with a wet smack.
Rusty froze.
He blinked slowly.
Nope. That happened. The floating headache just assaulted him.
He peeled the gelatinous thing off his mouth, disgust curling in his throat as it stretched like glue. He tossed it away and clenched his jaw.
No point arguing. This was his life now. A bad joke with no punchline.
He kept moving, eyes scanning the street ahead. The place looked surprisingly normal. Asphalt roads. People in casual clothes. A few vendors setting up carts. If not for the mild soreness in his everything and the memory of getting bodied by a horny woman, he'd have believed this was just another day on Earth.
Nothing here screamed alternate world—no monster horns, floating cars, or laser-sword fights. Just… people. Mundane and average.
"Rusty."
He stopped.
The voice slid into his ear like it knew the name better than he did. Even that got recycled, huh? Face, name, everything.
Damn.
What a waste of good looks on a broke-ass gigolo.
Rusty scanned the crowd, trying to spot whoever had called his name.
Then he saw him.
A man pushed through the crowd, a jagged scar carving down the side of his cheek like someone had taken a crusty blade to it and called it art. His face twisted with recognition—or maybe resentment.
"Where the fuck you going?"
The guy's voice hit like gravel poured through a garbage disposal—raw, loud, and aggressive as hell.
Rusty stood frozen, stomach tightening as the man closed in. His brain raced.
Is this about the debt? Shit. Is that even my debt? Technically... no. But this body? Yeah. It's his.
He opened his mouth. "Mhmm—" but nothing followed. No words. No excuse. No memory to bail him out. Just static.
The man stopped inches from him, eyes scanning Rusty like he already knew he wasn't quite the same. Like he smelled the glitch.
"You deaf now, Rusty? Or too busy playing pretty boy to pay me back?"
Oh, great. His lip twitched. So I owe this bastard? Don't even know his name. How deep did this body dig before dumping the bill on me?
He kept his expression blank, but inside, wires were sparking. He needed to play this off—quick.
"Was just scouting the street," he said, forcing a lazy shrug. "Trying to make something move. You know how it is."
The man scoffed. "You better be moving coin. I'm not running a charity, and your tab? It's got blood on it."
Rusty's fists clenched at his sides. Not from fear—just pure irritation. This wasn't even his mess, and somehow, he was neck-deep in it.
Milfy whispered, way too cheerfully, "Want me to sting him? One zap and he's pissing glass for a week."
Tempting.
But no. Not here. Not yet. The street was too open, and this guy clearly had connections. Better to stay low—for now.
Rusty took a breath and let it out slow. "I'll get your money. Just give me a damn day."
"One day," the man growled, stepping back. "If I don't see silver or blood tomorrow, I'm taking something else."
He turned and vanished into the crowd like a thug-shaped ghost.
Rusty didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Not until the tension slipped from his shoulders.
One day. I don't even have one coin.
He ran a hand through his hair, already dreading the sun going down. This world wasn't going to wait for him to catch up—it was chewing and spitting him out on repeat.
Milfy slid around his neck like a scarf with opinions. "I like this body's history. So many enemies. So little time."
Rusty didn't answer. Just kept walking.
He had twenty-four hours to turn a Gigolo man's reputation into something—or get buried with the debt.
"At least tell me what kind of jobs I can do here to earn. And how much I owe that guy—and the rest of them."
"I think your memory archive's fried. So, let me do the honors. You owe roughly two hundred million dollars total, give or take. Spread across... maybe ten? No, twenty people. Ballpark figure." Milfy said it like he was reciting lunch options.
Rusty stopped dead. His stomach lurched.
"Two hundred million?! Was this body eating money?"
"Who knows." Milfy giggled. "But the job part's easy. You're already employed. Premium gigolo, remember?"
Rusty stared ahead in dead silence.
"I can't even use my dick for the next fifteen hours. How am I supposed to be a gigolo?"
"Figure it out yourself. I'm not here to spoon-feed you."
"And that man earlier?" He exhaled sharply. "Who is he, and how much exactly do I owe him?"
"I'm too lazy to talk," Milfy yawned. "Let me rest."
Before Rusty could reply, Milfy shimmered and vanished off his shoulder, leaving behind a faint sparkle of bio-slime and nothing else.
Rusty wiped it off with a curse.
Of course. The system bails right when things turn critical.
He looked around, jaw tight, body aching. He needed a plan. Fast.
No money, no allies, and now? A price tag hanging over his head the size of a luxury spaceship.
He stepped off the curb and started walking again, eyes scanning signs, people, anything that looked like an opportunity to survive.
"I need to find something before death finds me."