The warehouse stank of rust, fear, and the sharp metallic bite of fresh blood. Neon Ridge's underbelly always smelled like that—cheap desperation mixed with gun oil. I leaned against the cold brick wall, wiping a streak of crimson from my knuckles, grinning like a fool even though my ribs throbbed from a lucky boot to the side.
Fifteen thugs down. One boss hog-tied and gagged with his own belt. And one little girl—maybe eight years old—huddled in the corner, wide eyes fixed on me like I was some kind of hero instead of just a mercenary scraping by on bounties.
"Hey, kiddo," I said, keeping my voice light, sunny, the way I always did when the world tried to drag me into the mud. "You okay? No scratches?"
She nodded slowly, clutching a torn teddy bear. My chest tightened. Damn my bleeding heart. I never could walk past this crap.
*Nosy idiot,* I thought, sarcasm dripping in my own head. *Most mercs would've grabbed the boss, cashed the bounty, and bounced. But nooo, Liam Hart has to play knight in dented armor.*
I scooped her up gently—she weighed nothing—and carried her out into the rain-slick alley. Sirens wailed in the distance; someone had tipped the cops. Good. Let them handle cleanup.
As I set her down beside my armored van, a warm rush flooded my veins. Not adrenaline. Something deeper. My muscles coiled tighter, stronger. A faint, ethereal ping echoed in my skull.
[Side Quest Complete: Protect the Innocent from Organ Traffickers.
Reward: +3 Strength, +2 Endurance, +1 Agility.
Mercenary Code Upheld. Keep it up, Host.]
I froze under the pouring rain. "What the actual fu—"
Another voice cut in—ancient, neutral, like it had seen a trillion worlds burn and didn't give a damn.
[MILF Kinks System Activated.
Host: Liam Hart. Age: 25. Orphan. Mercenary.
Core Rule: Never harm women or children. Respect them above all else. Violation reduces lifespan.
Success in fulfilling desires grants wealth beyond bounties.
Failure… reduces more than your bank account.
Tool ready. Use wisely.]
I barked a laugh, loud enough that the kid jumped. "A system? Like those trashy web novels I read when I'm bored in motels? Buddy, if this is a hallucination from that cheap whiskey last night, it's got impeccable timing."
No response. Just a subtle heads-up display flickering at the edge of my vision—transparent, only for me.
I shook my head, ruffled the kid's hair, and flagged down the approaching patrol cruiser. Cops took her statement, nodded grudgingly at me (merc reputation isn't great), and I slipped away before they could ask too many questions.
Bounty payout would hit my account in a few hours—enough for fuel, ammo, and maybe a real meal. But as I climbed into the van, engine rumbling to life, my mind raced.
A system. Focused on… MILFs?
I snorted. Of course it was. I'd always had a type. Mature women. Thirty and up. The kind who'd survived hell and come out stronger—curves honed by life, eyes that had seen too much, bodies that screamed strength and softness in the same breath. Big breasts that strained against practical clothes, wide hips that swayed with purpose, thick thighs that could pin a man down and make him beg for mercy.
Not fragile girls. Strong women. The ones who didn't need saving…but damn if I didn't want to worship them anyway.
*Great,* inner sarcasm chimed. *Universe finally notices my porn history and drops a golden finger tailored to my degeneracy. Thanks, cosmic HR department.*
The van's headlights cut through the mega-city sprawl. This Earth was massive—five times bigger than the old maps said, population exploding to a trillion souls crammed into endless neon-lit hives. Crime was everywhere. Gangs, traffickers, corporate raiders. Mercenaries like me filled the gaps law couldn't touch.
My comm buzzed. New job ping from the underground board.
"Protection contract. St. Elara's Mercy Hospital. Gang extortion escalating. Night-shift head nurse requesting armed guard. Pay: solid. Bonus for permanent resolution."
I grinned. Hospitals meant innocents. Kids. Women working double shifts to save lives in this shithole.
And nurses? Mature ones?
*Down, boy,* I scolded myself. *Professional first. Thirst later.*
The hospital loomed ahead—concrete fortress pocked with bullet scars, neon sign flickering "MERCY" in half-dead pink. I parked in the shadowed lot, grabbed my gear (pistol, knife, reinforced jacket), and strode in like I owned the night.
The ER reeked of antiseptic, blood, and burnt coffee. Patients groaned on gurneys. Overworked staff hustled.
And then I saw her.
Vanessa Reed.
Name tag glinted under harsh fluorescents. Thirty-six, if the board posting was accurate. Dark wavy hair tied in a practical ponytail, strands escaping to frame a face that was tired but fierce—high cheekbones, full lips pressed in determination, warm brown eyes that could pin you in place.
But her body…
Holy hell.
Scrubs clung to her like a second skin, stretched taut over heavy, full breasts that rose and fell with each steady breath. Hips flared wide, built for power and comfort. And those thighs—thick, strong, pressing together as she stood, the fabric whispering with every shift. She moved with purpose, no wasted motion, stitching a wound on a groaning thug while barking orders at a trembling intern.
Strength radiated from her. Not gym-rat fake. Real. The kind earned from years of holding lives together in chaos. Divorced, the rumors said. Single mom. Worked nights in a war zone disguised as a hospital.
My mouth went dry. Heat pooled low. The scent hit me as I stepped closer—antiseptic mixed with warm vanilla, faint sweat from hours on her feet, something uniquely feminine that made my dragon twitch in anticipation.
*Calm the hell down, Liam,* I thought, sarcasm thick. *You're here to guard, not drool. Though drooling wouldn't be the worst crime tonight.*
She glanced up as I approached the nurses' station, those brown eyes assessing me head to toe. Not scared. Not impressed yet. Just… measuring.
"You the merc?" Voice low, smoky, edged with exhaustion but unbreakable.
"That's me." I flashed my best sunny grin—the one that usually disarmed people before they realized I was trouble. "Liam Hart. Heard you need someone to keep the wolves from the door. I'm house-trained. Mostly."
Her lips twitched. Almost a smile. "Vanessa Reed. Head nurse, night shift. Gang's been pressing harder. Threatening staff. Patients."
She leaned on the counter, breasts pressing forward against the thin fabric. Nipples outlined faintly in the cold air. My gaze flicked down involuntarily, then snapped back up.
*Smooth, genius. Real professional.*
But she noticed. Arched a brow. "Eyes up, guard dog."
"Guilty," I said brightly, no shame. "But in my defense, you're packing serious heat under those scrubs. The dangerous kind."
This time, she did smile—small, tired, but real. Warmth spread in my chest.
Dialogue stayed light as I signed the digital contract. Pay was good. Bonus if I ended the threat permanently.
As she briefed me—gang name (Iron Vipers), leader's habits, recent demands—I couldn't help getting nosy.
"Kid?" I asked. "Posting mentioned a son."
Her eyes softened, then hardened again. "Ten years old. Stays with a sitter when I work. Ex bailed years ago. We manage."
Strong. So damn strong.
*System,* I thought on impulse, testing. *Show me her wishes. Vanessa Reed.*
The overlay flared to life.
[Target Registered: Vanessa Reed. Age: 36. Eligible.
Kinks & Desires:
- Intense praise worship: Craves verbal adoration of her body—breasts, thighs, ass, curves. Needs to hear how perfect, sexy, powerful she is.
- Gentle domination: Younger man taking confident control—hair pulling, pinning, guiding—but always respectful, checking in.
- Breast and thigh focus: Suckling, kneading, titjobs, thigh riding, worship until trembling.
- Risky semi-public: Heat in hidden corners—hallways, empty rooms—but safe.
- Deep emotional aftercare: Cuddling, reassurance, feeling cherished post-release.
Current Updates: None. Fulfill for reward.]
My heart slammed. Blood roared south. Visions flashed—my hands on those heavy breasts, mouth tracing thick thighs, whispering how goddess-like she was as I unleashed my dragon into her dripping cave…
I shifted stance, hiding the growing strain.
Vanessa tilted her head. "You alright, Liam? Look like you saw a ghost."
"Better than a ghost," I said, voice bright despite the fire in my veins. "Just realized this job might be the best one I've ever taken."
She rolled her eyes, but that almost-smile returned. "Flatterer. Patrol starts now. Vipers usually hit around 3 a.m."
Hours passed. I prowled corridors, traded sarcastic banter with staff, broke up a minor scuffle. Vanessa worked tirelessly—strong hands steady on IVs, voice calm during a code blue.
Every brush past her in tight hallways sent sparks. Her scent lingered. Heat radiated from her curves. Thighs brushing mine accidentally—or not?
Midnight lull. We shared burnt coffee in the break room.
"You always this cheerful?" she asked, leaning against the vending machine. Scrubs pulled tight across her chest.
"Born sunny," I replied. "World's dark enough. Someone's gotta bring the light."
*Cheesy, Hart. Real cheesy.*
But she laughed softly. "Handsome and optimistic. Dangerous combo."
Handsome. She said it casually, but my dragon stirred harder.
Inner voice: *Slow burn, idiot. Earn it. Worship later.*
Then alarms blared. Comm crackled—security feed.
Iron Vipers. Early raid. Twenty strong, armed heavy.
Vanessa's eyes steeled. She grabbed a trauma kit like a weapon.
I grinned, adrenaline singing. "Showtime."
But as we rushed toward the ER doors, a cold system warning pinged:
[Approaching Threat: Innocents in Danger. Side Quest Triggered.
Protect. Or face consequences.]
The front doors exploded inward.
And the night turned to hell.
(To be continued…)