SIP.
I drank day-old breakroom coffee that tasted like battery acid and my dad's crushing disappointment.
My scuffed boots rested on the sticky, peeling linoleum of the ticketing desk. I stared blankly across the dreary cinderblock lobby at the swirling blue portal of Dungeon 0119.
"Ugh. Vile."
It was an F-rank hole. Hunters called the place Dead Man's Tomb.
Which made perfect logical sense, if a bit redundant. If a property is zoned as a tomb, a corpse is obviously the primary leaseholder.
I'd love to say I was close to retirement. I was ready to punch out, hit a beach, and live off a pension.
Nope.
I possessed a dual Master's Degree in Accounting and Criminal Justice, plus a mountain of crippling student loan debt.
Because why be miserable in just one soul-sucking field when you can mathematically and legally optimize your own depression?
The economy was a total dumpster fire right now. My dad had to pull three separate favors just to get me this depressing front-desk job at Dungeon Corp.
My daily responsibilities included taking entry payments, filing incident reports, and making sure unauthorized people didn't wander into the vortex.
Hazard pay was the only thing keeping the electricity on in my miserable studio apartment. Usually, the gig was mind-numbingly boring.
Guards were issued a rusted iron shortsword and a cheap chest-mounted camera. Naturally, dimensional interference completely fried the budget electronics the second you crossed a portal threshold.
My actual defense strategy was pure bluffing. That, and the crumpled coupon sweating in my breast pocket.
Half-off potstickers at Golden Dragon. Fridays only, with the purchase of a large fountain drink.
I just needed to survive until five o'clock.
VWOOM.
The temperature in the lobby dropped. The calm blue vortex of the dungeon portal snapped to a harsh, bleeding crimson.
I flinched. My squeaky faux-leather chair slipped right out from under me.
I ate the floor hard. Lukewarm, acidic coffee splashed right onto my crotch.
"Son of a—"
Corporate-mandated panic hijacked my brain. I scrambled up. My cheap polyester pants clung to my damp thighs.
A red portal was the physical indicator that someone had just breached the boss room.
That meant the solo hunter who paid standard entry an hour ago—Nograk the Brave, whose HR file literally just said "Todd"—was breaking his contract.
"Crap."
If he zeroed the boss, the dungeon would enter a mandatory respawn cooldown for months. That meant millions in lost ticket revenue. Because I was on shift, Corporate would automatically garnish my wages to cover the insurance deductible.
Goodbye, potstickers. Goodbye, apartment.
I slammed my palm down on the distress button hidden under the desk. A silent signal shot out to corporate, logging a generic breach alert to establish my paper trail without triggering a loud siren.
Then, I yanked my utility belt off the rusted coat rack. It held my company-issued iron shortsword, two expired health potions, and a chalky teleportation stone.
I buckled the stiff pleather strap over my coffee-stained slacks.
Employee Handbook Rule 4.1 mandated a physical attempt to stop unauthorized combat to avoid total financial liability. I sprinted for the crimson breach.
Stepping through a portal didn't feel magical or heroic. It felt exactly like getting sucked through a freezing, mucus-coated straw.
POP.
Midnight in a sprawling subterranean cemetery. The air hung thick with the suffocating stench of wet dirt, powdery mildew, and rotting marrow.
Skeletons loitered in the muddy grass like bored mall rats. I fumbled the teleportation stone.
It took both my hands and a pathetic grunt to snap the dense rock.
Space inverted, sending my stomach into a nauseating backflip. Suddenly, I stood inside the tomb's antechamber.
It was surprisingly spacious. Pristine, actually.
The marble tiling was perfectly seamless. I marveled at the flawless grout work, wondering if I could get the contractor's card for my dad's master bath remodel.
Focus.
Todd loomed over the dungeon boss. He was decked out in full draconic armor colored gold with red embossing.
Ugly as sin. The suit looked like a mid-life crisis sports car melted down and molded into a breastplate.
The monster cowered on the beautiful tile, shielding his brittle skull. The boss was a centuries-old Lich who managed this zone, smelling strongly of mothballs and dry rot.
"Please, no! Spare me!"
A literal master of the dark arts begging a frat bro named Todd for mercy. Honestly, that seemed fair.
Todd was laughably over-geared for an F-rank asset.
Todd smirked. He raised a glowing, spiked crimson broadsword.
"Sorry. You drop a ring that's perfect for my build."
I threw my hand out in a crisp, authoritative stop motion. Then I realized he was facing the complete opposite direction.
I dropped my hand, feeling the cheap fabric of my uniform stick to my sweaty armpits.
"Halt! Hey!"
Todd whipped around, his eyes widening in genuine surprise. His perfectly layered dirty-blonde hair swished over one eye as he pointed the glowing sword at me.
The heat rolling off the blade made my face sweat from thirty yards away.
"What the— Who the hell are you? The ticketing guy?"
I shot back, desperately trying to find an octave of authority.
"Dungeon Corp Security. You do not have an asset-liquidation permit for this zone. Step away from the boss."
Todd puffed out his chest. The heavy metal plating clanked loudly.
"Oh really? I'd say my pecs give me maximum clearance. Get lost."
I paused. Blinked.
"...What? Are you going to rub me to death with your pecs?"
Todd's face flushed a blotchy, embarrassed red. He stomped his heavy metal boot.
"What? No! I'm saying I'm going to use my muscles to destroy you!"
I let the echo of that absurd threat die in the vast, perfectly tiled room.
"By... rubbing me with them?"
Todd slammed his foot down in a meathead tantrum.
"Aaaahhh! You anger me!"
SMASH.
Spiderweb fractures exploded across the pristine marble floor. A genuine tear slid down my cheek.
He ruined the gorgeous masonry.
Did this idiot have any idea what the labor costs were on subterranean tile repair? I jabbed a trembling finger at him.
"You are in direct violation of Clause 27, Article 3 of the Dungeon Corp Hunting Rights Contract!"
Thick veins bulged prominently on Todd's moisturized forehead.
"Do you know who my father is?"
I scratched my nose and squinted at him.
"Uh. No. Should I? Is he an actor? Can you get me a headshot?"
Todd took a threatening step forward.
"No! And I wouldn't get you one even if he was!"
I faked a pout.
"Okay, now you're just being hurtful."
Todd sneered.
"My dad is a lawyer. He'll get this whole incident dismissed in court."
My mouth was running purely on adrenaline and a complete lack of self-preservation. I threw up an upside-down 'okay' sign and winked.
"Oh yeah? Well, my dad is an accountant. He can do your dad's taxes better than he can. Save him fifteen percent or more, guaranteed. This statement is not legally binding, is strictly for promotional purposes, and should not be construed as financial advice."
Todd's jaw went completely slack. He looked into the dark, torch-lit corners of the tomb.
"Are you doing an ad read right now?"
I shrugged and patted my empty pocket.
"Everyone has to do their taxes, and April is coming. Plus, I get a referral bonus."
Todd's confusion finally boiled over into raw, unfiltered rage.
"Shut up! My dad will have you fired and out on your ass in a heartbeat!"
I crossed my arms, fully bluffing.
"Doesn't matter. I already hit the silent alarm at the front desk. Corporate knows there's a breach. If I testify and you catch a corporate ban, the financial liability transfers to you, and I keep my hazard pay."
That was all I needed to confirm. The half-off potstickers were still in play.
I watched his face, tracking his eyes as they darted back and forth. The rusted gears in his meathead brain slowly turned.
Wait. Oh, shit.
I severely overplayed my weak hand. A predatory smile stretched across Todd's tanned face as he lowered his stance.
"That only happens if there's a witness... so I guess I'll just kill you."
A single drop of pee escaped into my coffee-soaked slacks. It was just a drop, rendering it statistically insignificant.
I squeaked, taking a hasty step back.
"Yeah. Got the subtext. You didn't need to explain the logic puzzle out loud."
"You're dead!"
Todd charged. His strides were long, rhythmic, and ate up the distance in terrifying seconds.
Something about his running form grossed me out.
It was too anatomically perfect. Like a gazelle made of raw meat and pure arrogance.
He blocked the overhead torchlight, smelling like expensive body spray and synthetic weapon oil.
I asked, my voice cracking under the sheer weight of my impending doom.
"Do I get any last words?"
Todd sneered. He actually sheathed his broadsword, deciding not to give me the dignity of an edged weapon.
"You just used them."
I sighed, bracing for the inevitable. Todd whipped his massive arm back, winding up for the blow.
"Fine by me. I lived a full life. Wait. I'm twenty-three. I haven't even paid off my student loans—"
CRUNCH.