I turned around to find a girl standing way too close. I nearly jumped out of my new, scrawny skin.
"God, Dunk, you look spooked," she said, her voice raspy and amused.
"Don't creep up on me like that," I snapped, trying to settle my racing heart.
It was Brit. She lived a few doors down in this dump. She had short, choppy black hair and eyes the color of muddy river water. She was wearing a tiny crop top that clung to her small, perky breasts and pink shorts that showed off a pair of surprisingly clean thighs.
Base 4 apartments were the bottom of the barrel, crumbling concrete, zero ventilation, and water cuts that lasted for weeks. The guys here were mostly low-rent thieves, and the girls were mostly working the corners or the bars.
If a girl was lucky, she'd snag a Hunter with a savior complex and enough credits to move her into the inner city.
Brit hadn't been lucky yet. She was still just a low-life whore like the rest of them.
"Can I have a smoke?" she asked, flashing me a smile that was actually pretty decent, considering the neighborhood.
I reluctantly handed her the cigarette. She stepped up to the railing beside me, leaning her hip against the rusted metal as she looked out over the smog-choked horizon of the city. She drew on the tobacco like it was oxygen, letting the smoke curl out of her nostrils before offering it back to me.
I shook my head. "Nah. I'm good."
"Really?" She raised an eyebrow.
"I don't know where those lips have been," I said, my voice flat.
She didn't get offended. She just laughed, a dry, hollow sound. "Relax, Dunk. I haven't sucked a cock in two weeks. Business is slow."
"That's what they all say," I countered, my eyes scanning her. My professional instincts were already cataloging her—nice skin, good legs, but she had that tired look of someone who'd given up on the dream.
She turned her head, giving me a skeptical look. "Like you'd know the difference. You don't even know what a blowjob feels like, let alone how to tell if someone's lying about one."
I met her gaze, holding it until her smile faltered just a fraction. I wasn't the Dunk she remembered, the awkward kid who probably blushed when she walked by.
"You'd be surprised how much I know, Brit," I said, my voice dropping low.
She paused, the cigarette halfway to her mouth. She looked at me properly for the first time, sensing the shift in the air. The innocent grey eyes of this new body were currently projecting something much more predatory.
She looked away, taking another drag to hide her confusion. "Whatever you say, Dunk. You just look... exhausted. Like you need a massage or something."
"I just woke up," I said, leaning back against the doorframe.
"Jesus, why do you have to be so difficult to talk to?" She sighed, blowing a plume of smoke over the railing. "I'm just trying to sell you my services, Dunk. Help a neighbor out."
I smirked, leaning my head back against the concrete. "I know exactly what you're trying to do."
"Then don't you want some action?" She stepped closer, her perfume, a cheap, floral scent that barely covered the smell of the city, hitting me. "Finally get rid of that virginity. You're eighteen now, aren't you?"
"Yeah. Eighteen."
"Then you should let a pro like me help you out. Better me than some crackhead down at the docks who'll rob you blind before you even get your pants down."
"Nah," I said, looking her up and down with a clinical eye. "I think I'm good."
"I can give you a discount?" she purred, her voice dropping into that practiced, husky tone she used for the Hunters. She reached out, her fingers tracing a slow line down my chest. Through the thin fabric of my shirt, I could feel her nails. "Neighbor price. Just for you."
"I said I'm good, Brit," I said, catching her wrist.
God, she was persistent. Most guys in this building would have been drooling by now, but my brain was still wired like a veteran producer. I knew the difference between a girl who was into it and a girl who was just trying to make rent.
"First time's free?" she blurted out.
I paused. That got my attention. You don't offer a freebie unless you're desperate or you're damn sure of your product. She was confident—she figured once I tasted what she was offering, I'd be addicted. She thought she was hooking a lifetime customer.
"Maybe next time," I said, gently but firmly removing her hand. I stepped back, heading for my door.
"If you ever decide otherwise, you know where to find me!" she called after me, her voice echoing down the dark, cramped hallway. "Don't be a stranger, Dunk!"
I shut the door and leaned against it, the blue system screen still hovering in my peripheral vision. The tutorial was mocking me.
[OBJECTIVE: REGISTER WITH AN AGENCY (0/1)]
[OBJECTIVE: BED AT LEAST ONE WOMAN (0/1)]
Brit was an easy target, but I wasn't just some kid looking to get laid. I was Thomas. If I was going to do this, I was going to do it right. I needed a professional setup.
"Alright, Duncan," I muttered, sitting at the rickety desk that looked like it was held together by spit and prayer. "Let's see who's hiring in this brave new world."
I flipped open a battered laptop. The screen flickered with a low-res groan before finally loading the browser. My fingers felt light and nimble, strange for someone used to hands calloused by heavy lifting and the gym, as I typed in the search for adult agencies.
First thing I did was look up Carlson's Studio. I needed to know if the old man made it.
The headlines hit me like a physical punch.
"S-RANK COLLATERAL: DOWNTOWN STUDIO LEVELLED IN DUNGEON BREAK."
The articles were a mess of technical jargon about mana fluctuations and "unforeseen rift stability." Apparently, an S-Rank Hunter had gone toe-to-toe with an A-Rank Boss right in the middle of the red-light district. The Hunter Association was still doing damage control, trying to explain why a high-level threat managed to spawn in a goddamn urban center.
Then I saw the casualty list.
Thomas Ferguson, 28, Adult Performer.
Mrs. Aldrich, 54, Mother of five.
The world thought I was a smear on the pavement.
"So, Miranda and Carlson actually made it?" I felt a weird, bitter-sweet relief wash over me. I wanted to reach out, to tell Carlson I wasn't dead, but the realization of my new reality sank in. I looked at my thin, pale hands.
To them, Thomas Ferguson was a memory. If I walked into that office now, they'd just see some scrawny kid named Duncan with a weirdly intense stare. The connection was severed. That life was buried under six feet of rubble.
"New body, new life," I whispered, closing the tab. "Don't look back, kid. You've got a system to feed."
I cleared the history and started scouting the other players in the game. Most of the big-name agencies were locked behind 'Awakened Only' requirements—apparently, even the porn industry was obsessed with Hunter stats these days. But as I scrolled deeper into the darker corners of the web, a few smaller, hungrier agencies started popping up.
One caught my eye: Vixen Media. Their site was flashy but felt slightly desperate. They didn't care about Hunter ranks; they just wanted "Fresh Talent with High Stamina."
I leaned back, the blue system screen glowing in my peripheral vision.
[OBJECTIVE: REGISTER WITH AN AGENCY (0/1)]
"Vixen Media, huh?" I muttered, cracking my new, slender knuckles. "Let's see if they're ready for a veteran in a rookie's skin."