The alarm blared at 6:47 a.m., but Tareme was already awake, staring at the cracked ceiling of their one-bedroom apartment in District 7's lower blocks. The place smelled faintly of cheap instant ramen and Audrey's vanilla body lotion. Sunlight sliced through the half-closed blinds, painting golden stripes across Audrey's bare back as she straddled him.
She was perfection made flesh. Long silver hair cascaded like liquid moonlight down to the small of her back, swaying with every deliberate roll of her hips. Her breasts—full, heavy, pale pink nipples already stiff—bounced in rhythm as she rode him. The curve of her waist flared into hips that could make traffic stop. Right now those hips were grinding down hard, taking every inch of him inside her slick heat.
"Fuck… yeah, just like that," Audrey moaned, voice husky and theatrical. Her nails dug into his chest, leaving red crescents. "Come on, baby, give it to me."
Tareme gripped her thighs, trying to match her pace, but she was already controlling everything. She clenched around him deliberately, milking him with expert pulses that made his vision blur. He could feel how wet she was—dripping down his balls, soaking the sheets—but there was something performative in her gasps, like she was reading from a script titled *How to Make Your Boyfriend Feel Adequate*.
He thrust up harder, desperate to hear real pleasure instead of encouragement. Audrey arched, silver hair whipping as she tossed her head back. Her clit rubbed against his pelvis with every downward grind.
"Harder," she demanded. "Make me feel it, Tareme."
He tried. God, he tried. Muscles burning, breath ragged, he slammed up into her again and again. For a moment her moans sounded genuine—higher, breathier. Then she laughed softly, a sound that cut deeper than any insult.
"You're so cute when you try," she purred, leaning down so her breasts pressed against his chest. Her lips brushed his ear. "But we both know you're never going to make me come like this."
The words hit like a slap. Tareme faltered. She felt it immediately—his rhythm breaking—and sat up straighter, riding him faster, chasing her own finish now that his ego was sufficiently bruised.
She reached between her legs, fingers circling her swollen clit in tight, practiced strokes. "Watch me," she ordered. "Watch how a real orgasm looks."
Tareme couldn't look away. Her inner walls fluttered, then clamped down hard. Audrey's thighs trembled. A genuine, broken cry tore from her throat as she came—back bowing, silver hair flying, pussy gushing around him in hot pulses. The sight alone nearly pushed him over.
He lasted maybe five more seconds.
With a strangled groan he erupted inside her, hips jerking uncontrollably as he filled her with rope after thick rope. Audrey milked him through it, rolling her hips in slow, lazy circles until he was spent and twitching.
Then she sighed.
The sound was heavy, disappointed. She lifted off him with a wet pop, his softening cock slipping free. A thick trickle of his cum followed, sliding down her inner thigh. She didn't bother wiping it away.
"You really are the weakest hunter alive," she muttered, half to herself, as she swung her legs off the bed. "Grade 1. Can't even last long enough to satisfy your own girlfriend."
Tareme lay there, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling again. The post-orgasm haze couldn't dull the sting. He knew the stats: Hunters ranked from 9 (god-tier national treasures) down to 1 (basically civilians with a license and a death wish). Audrey was Grade 3—weak by hunter standards, sure, but still able to solo low-rank Gates without breaking a sweat. He was Grade 1. The jokes wrote themselves.
She padded naked to the bathroom. Water hissed on. Tareme forced himself up, wincing at the familiar ache in his lower back. Another Gate raid today. Another chance to prove he wasn't completely useless.
He showered after her, dressed in the patched-up reinforced jacket that marked him as bottom-tier, and grabbed his cheap mana-detector baton. Audrey was already in skin-tight combat leggings and a cropped tactical top that left her midriff bare. She looked like she belonged on recruitment posters. He looked like the guy they warn you not to be.
"Party's meeting at Gate 47-C in thirty," she said without looking up from her phone. "Don't embarrass me."
"I won't."
She finally glanced at him. A small, pitying smile. "You always say that."
The Gate was a tear in reality itself—shimmering purple-black, roughly eight feet tall, spitting cold wind that smelled of wet iron and rot. Low-rank. Goblin swarm territory. Perfect for Grade 1–4 clear teams.
The party leader, a scarred Grade 4 named Kang, took one look at Tareme and snorted. "You're the luggage today, kid. Stay in the back, don't die, don't touch loot."
Four others: two Grade 3 melee fighters, one Grade 4 archer, and Audrey. She stood beside Kang, hip cocked, already laughing at some private joke.
They stepped through.
Inside was a damp cavern system lit by bioluminescent fungi. Goblins—small, green, vicious—swarmed almost immediately. The team moved like a well-oiled machine. Kang cleaved through three at once. Audrey danced between them, her short sword flashing, opening throats with surgical precision. Blood sprayed in elegant arcs.
Tareme hung back, baton raised, trying to look useful. A goblin broke through the line—snarling, yellow teeth bared—and charged straight at him.
He swung. The baton connected with a dull crack. The goblin staggered but didn't drop. It lunged again. Tareme stumbled backward, foot catching on a loose rock.
He fell.
Hard.
Pain exploded in his ribs as he hit stone. The goblin pounced. Claws raked his jacket, tore through fabric, scored flesh. Hot blood welled. He screamed, flailing, baton useless now.
More goblins turned. A pack of six rushed him.
"Shit—cover the weak link!" Kang barked.
But they were already engaged. Audrey glanced over once—eyes wide for half a second—then turned back to her own fight.
Tareme curled into a ball as teeth sank into his calf. Another set tore at his shoulder. Blood filled his mouth. Vision tunneled.
This is it, he thought dimly. Grade 1 trash dies like Grade 1 trash.
A shadow loomed. Kang's axe whistled down, bisecting the goblin on his back. Another hunter yanked the one off his leg. Someone dragged him backward by the collar.
"Fucking idiot," Kang growled, slamming a healing patch onto Tareme's worst wound. "You good?"
Tareme coughed blood. "Y-yeah… thanks."
"Don't thank me. You almost cost us the clear bonus."
They finished the swarm in minutes. Tareme limped behind them the rest of the way, ribs screaming, leg numb. No one spoke to him again.
When the Gate collapsed behind them, Audrey walked straight past without a glance. Kang tossed him a water bottle like you'd toss one to a stray dog.
"Get patched up, kid. And maybe think about quitting before you get someone killed."
Tareme nodded mutely. The team dispersed. Audrey vanished with Kang toward the payment booth, hips swaying.
Tareme stood alone on the cracked pavement, blood soaking through his bandages, watching the sun dip behind the skyline. He felt small. Smaller than ever.
Then the world tilted.
A sharp, searing pain lanced through his skull—like someone had driven a white-hot spike straight into his brain. He gasped, clutched his head. Vision swam with red static.
He dropped to his knees.
The last thing he felt before darkness swallowed him was something tearing open inside his skull… like a second Gate ripping straight into his brain.