The dungeon’s stone walls glistened with damp rot, torchlight flickering over jagged runes carved into the floor, pulsing faintly with crimson mana. The air hung thick—humid, sour with brimstone and decay, cwing at the lungs.

  The mage stumbled, crimson robes snagging on a stagmite, tearing as she crashed to her knees. Her staff skittered across the stone, its crystal tip fring once before winking out. The warrior lunged, leather armor groaning, broadsword slicing the dark—once, twice—but meeting only shadows.

  At the chamber’s heart, the Demon King towered, a nightmare of jagged horns and tattered wings, bck armor gleaming like wet obsidian. His eyes burned red, twin embers in the gloom, and his ugh rumbled like thunder. “Kneel or break,” he snarled, raising a cwed hand wreathed in dark mana.

  Shadows erupted from the floor—slick tendrils shed out, pinning the mage’s wrists overhead, shredding her robes to expose pale skin.

  “Let me go, you bastard!” she spat, thrashing as a glistening coil slithered up her leg, tearing stockings with a slow rip. It brushed her core, icy and teasing, then thrust deep, stretching her.

  “No, you won’t—!” cracked into a choked moan, the wet sp echoing off the walls.

  The warrior roared, bde fshing, but a tendril snagged her ankle, smming her down. Her sword spun away, cnging uselessly. Shadows ripped her leather chestpiece apart, baring sweat-slick breasts.

  “I’ll carve your heart out!” she snarled, kicking, but a pulsing tendril forced its way between her thighs.

  “Fuck you!” she spat, hips bucking to dislodge it, but it drove harder, wrenching a grunt from her throat.

  The Demon King smirked, wings swallowing the torchlight.

  “Defiant little toys,” he purred, snapping his fingers. Dark mana fred from his palm, a crimson wave sinking into their skin like molten syrup.

  “Feel my will,” he growled, voice coiling into their minds.

  The mage coughed, cheeks flushing, hips twitching as the tendril thrust deeper.

  “What… is this?” she rasped, shaking her head.

  “I won’t submit,” she panted, but a moan slipped free. The warrior sucked in a sharp breath, gring at him. “Your tricks won’t break me.”

  He tilted his head, amused. “Not tricks—power.”

  She spat at him, missing. “I’ll die before I grovel.”

  But her thighs glistened now, body trembling faintly. The mage whimpered beside her, resistance fraying.

  “It’s… too much,” she gasped as a second tendril flicked her nipples.

  “Resist all you want,” the Demon King taunted, and her hips rolled, chasing the rhythm.

  The warrior’s breath quickened, spell cwing deeper. “You’re nothing—a coward with magic.”

  He chuckled. “And yet you’re trembling.”

  A second tendril stretched her wider, and she snarled—“Fuck—no!”—shuddering as pleasure surged.

  The mage broke first, a tendril slipping into her mouth.

  “I—I can’t—” she mumbled, then sucked, gagging as it thrust.

  The warrior’s gre held, but her hips jerked once, a groan escaping.

  “Still fighting?” he mocked.

  “Never,” she spat, voice cracking, until a third tendril teased her ass, pushing in deep.

  “No—fuck—” she choked, cwing the stone, but the spell overwhelmed her.

  “Fuck—no—yes!” ripped free as she surrendered, hips grinding.

  “Yes—harder!” The mage’s moans joined hers, their bodies quaking in the torchlight, the dungeon echoing with spellbound ecstasy. The Demon King ughed, cws glinting, and—

  The screen flickered.

  I blinked, the basement snapping into focus. My desktop monitor glowed on the rickety desk across from my sagging mattress, Tentacle Lust IV: Dungeon Assault painting my sweaty face in blue light.

  It was 2 p.m., blinds shut, Mom’s basement a musty cave. My hand was slick with lotion, pumping hard, boxers shoved down to my knees as I knelt on the floor, chasing the edge. The headphones bsted their screams into my ears, drowning out everything—until a single knock thudded on the door.

  “Elliot, I’m coming in,” Dad said, calm, almost gentle, like he was dropping off undry. The doorknob jiggled—he was fiddling with the lock, casual as hell.

  Panic smmed into me. “Wait wait wait!” I screamed, voice cracking, lunging for the keyboard. My slick hand slipped, smearing lotion across the keys, the pause button mocking me. My boxers tangled around my legs as I yanked them up, stumbling forward. The headphone wire caught my foot—I tripped, crashing to my knees, and the cord ripped free from the desktop.

  “Oh god, YES, HARDER!” bsted through the room, their screams raw and deafening.

  The door swung open. Dad stood there, a crumpled McDoonald’s flyer in his hand, tie loose from the office, his face frozen in shock. He stared—me, pants down, dick out, lotion dripping, the monitor glowing with bck tentacles pounding the screaming female mage and warrior.

  His eyes widened, mouth dropping, fbbergasted for a heartbeat—then the rage hit.

  “What the FUCK are you doing?!” he roared, voice shaking the walls. I scrambled back, boxers still caught, half-falling onto the mattress.

  “I-I—” I stammered, hands filing, but he cut me off, hurling the flyer at my chest.

  It stuck to the lotion, the McDoonald’s logo gring up. “24 and this is your life? Jerking off to-to a cartoon? I came down here to help you, got you a job lead—McDoonald’s, something even you could do! Get a job by this weekend—any job—or you’re out. Homeless. Done!”

  Fury sparked in me, hot and useless. “Fuck you,” I muttered, barely audible, eyes on the floor.

  He froze, head tilting. “What’d you say?” His voice went low, icy.

  I shrank back, shaking my head fast. “N-nothing,” I whimpered, cowardice choking me. He stared, disgust twisting his face, then stormed out, leaving the door wide open.

  I colpsed, panting, their moans still echoing in my skull, the flyer crinkling against my skin.

  I slunk upstairs a few hours ter, the basement stairs creaking under my socks like they were ratting me out. The lotion smell clung to my skin, faint but damning, even after I’d scrubbed my hands raw in the bathroom sink. My stomach growled—hadn’t eaten since st night’s cold pizza—but the thought of facing them made it churn harder.

  The kitchen hit me with a wave of overcooked meatloaf stench, Mom’s signature dish, burned edges and all.

  She was at the counter, setting out chipped ptes in silence, her graying ponytail bobbing like she was on autopilot.

  Dad hulked at the table’s head, newspaper spread out, gsses perched low on his nose, pretending I didn’t exist. The clock ticked too loud—6:47 p.m.—each second a hammer on my skull.

  I slid into my chair, the one with the wobbly leg, and kept my eyes down. The meatloaf sat there, a sad brown sb next to a pile of mushy peas, staring back like it knew I was a fuckup.

  “Pass the salt,” Dad grunted, not even gncing up, his voice ft as the newsprint he was scowling at.

  I reached for the shaker, my hand shaky from the afternoon’s chaos, and nearly knocked it over. It rattled against the table, loud as a gunshot.

  He sighed—long, slow, like he was exhaling twenty-four years of disappointment. I shoved it toward him, mumbling, “Here,” and he took it without a word, sprinkling it over his pte like I was invisible.

  Mom broke the silence, her voice thin and brittle, like gss about to crack. “So… any pns tomorrow, Elliot?” She didn’t look at me either, just kept fussing with a dishrag, wiping nothing.

  I stabbed at the meatloaf with my fork, the tines scraping the pte. “Job interview, I guess,” I muttered, barely loud enough to hear over the clock.

  Dad snorted, a sharp bark that made me flinch. “Better not screw it up like everything else,” he said, flipping a page with a snap.

  The words nded like a punch, and I felt that spark again—Fuck you, I’m trying—but it died in my throat, same as always. My jaw tightened, but I just nodded, a quick jerk of my head, shrinking into the chair like a kicked dog.

  The meatloaf tasted like sawdust, dry and crumbling as I chewed, forcing it down.

  They didn’t get it—college had hollowed me out, four years of grinding for a degree that didn’t mean shit now. I’d traded everything for A’s, and now the world spat me out—unhireable, useless.

  The McDoonald’s flyer was still in my pocket, crumpled and sweaty, its stupid golden arches promising salvation I didn’t deserve.

  Weekend deadline. Homeless. The words looped in my head, a drumbeat of doom.

  I gnced at Mom—her lips were a tight line, eyes fixed on her pte like she was praying I’d disappear. Dad turned another page, the rustle loud as thunder. I swallowed hard, the meat sticking, and kept my mouth shut. What was there to say? They’d already written me off.

  The silence stretched, thick and heavy, choking me. I poked at the peas, watching them roll around like little green accusations.

  You’re a loser, Elliot. A basement-dwelling perv with no future.

  Dad coughed once, a dry hack, and I flinched again, waiting for the next jab. It didn’t come—just more silence, worse than any yelling.

  I shoveled another bite in, barely tasting it, the flyer burning against my thigh. Tomorrow. McDoonald’s. My st shot. I couldn’t even imagine walking in there, let alone begging for a job flipping burgers. I was supposed to be earning 6 figures a year, not 6 dolrs a day.

  But the alternative—Dad’s face when he kicked me out, Mom’s quiet tears—was worse. I stared at my pte, the meatloaf half-gone, and wondered how the hell I’d ended up here.

  I jolted awake, my phone’s chiptune arm screeching like a dying Game Boy. The basement air was thick, stale with yesterday’s shame, and my head throbbed like someone had clubbed me with a brick. I swiped the phone off the milk crate—9:13 a.m. Shit. The McDoonald’s interview was at 10. I’d pnned to shower, look semi-decent, but the snooze button had won again.

  I rolled off the mattress, back creaking, and stumbled to the clothes pile. A wrinkled blue button-up—faint pizza grease stain on the sleeve—was the best I had. I sniffed it; passable. Jeans were buried under manga, the only pair not crusty with sweat. I yanked them on, hopping as the zipper snagged, then shoved my feet into sneakers with frayed ces. No time for a shower—I fttened my greasy hair in the cracked mirror. The guy staring back was a wreck: pale, puffy, dark circles like someone punched me twice. Loser, he mouthed. I bolted upstairs.

  Mom’s sedan keys dangled by the garage door. She was at her receptionist gig, Dad at his desk job—both gone, leaving me to fester. I grabbed the keys, palm sweaty, and slid into the driver’s seat. The car stank of pine air freshener and failure, the dash clock blinking 9:27. I could make it if I floored it.

  The engine sputtered to life, and I peeled out, gravel crunching. My hands shook on the wheel, rehearsing lies: I’m reliable. I can work hard. Total bullshit, but maybe they’d bite. The crumpled flyer in my pocket promised “no experience needed”—my st lifeline.

  McDoonald’s loomed, golden arches gring. I screeched into the lot at 9:58, parking crooked across two spaces. The bell jangled as I shoved the door open, hitting me with fryer grease and despair. A couple of old guys sipped coffee in the corner, staring like I was a sideshow.

  Behind the counter stood Brad—19, tall as hell, leaning back with an easy confidence. His red polo hung loose, a tribal tattoo curling up one forearm, and his dark hair was spiked like he didn’t care but still looked good. He popped his gum loudly, eyeing me as I shuffled up, resume in hand—a crumpled page I’d printed at 3 a.m. He took it, gncing down, then frowned.

  “Computer science degree?” His voice was smooth and id-back, but it cut deep. He looked me over—greasy hair, stained shirt, hunched shoulders—and tilted his head. “Dude, aren’t you supposed to be, like, rolling in cash? Why’re you here?”

  My stomach dropped, my throat tightened. “I—I, uh, I just—n-need a job,” I stammered, voice barely above a whisper, eyes darting to his scuffed sneakers. My hands shook, crumpling the edge of my jeans.

  He shrugged, popping his gum again, unbothered. “Cool. Why do you want to work here?”

  “Uh… m-money?” I croaked, tongue tripping over itself. My face burned, sweat beading on my forehead. I couldn’t look at him—tall, tattooed, oozing cool while I melted into a puddle.

  He scribbled something, smirking faintly. “You ever flipped burgers?”

  “N-no, but I—I can, uh, learn,” I mumbled, staring at the counter, voice cracking. My palms were slick, sliding on my pants.

  “Cool. Next question: where do you see yourself in five years?” He leaned forward a bit, resting an elbow on the counter, watching me squirm.

  “F-five years?” I blinked, mind bnking. “Uh… I—I don’t know, um, maybe… here?” I stuttered, words tumbling out in a mess. My ears rang, my pulse hammering.

  Brad chuckled, a low, amused sound, shaking his head. “Here? You wanna be slinging fries in five years? Man, that’s ambitious.” His smirk widened, gum popping as he let the jab hang there, watching me flinch.

  I shrank smaller, cheeks burning. “N-no, I—I didn’t—” I started, but my voice died, throat closing up.

  He waved it off, still grinning. “What are your strengths?”

  “Strengths?” I echoed, voice high and shaky. “I—I’m, uh, g-good with… computers? M-maybe? I don’t—” I trailed off, shrinking, wishing I could vanish.

  “Computers. Got it,” he said, ft, jotting it down. “What makes customer service great?”

  “Uh… p-people? Happy, uh, c-customers? I—I don’t know, smiling?” I fumbled, barely coherent, picturing yelling moms and spilled soda. My knees wobbled, my chest tight.

  “Sure. Last one: you got any questions for me?” He looked up, gum popping, waiting.

  “N-no,” I whispered, eyes glued to a scratch on the counter.

  “Sweet. We’ll call you if you get the position.” His tone said don’t hold your breath. He tossed my resume onto a pile, already done with me.

  I shuffled out, the bell mocking me on the way. Five minutes. That’s all I was worth. I slid back into the sedan, numb, the key trembling in my hand. Not even McDoonald’s wanted me.

  Mom’s face fshed in my mind—those tight lips, the disappointed sigh she’d let out when I told her. Dad’s ultimatum echoed louder—homeless, homeless, homeless. I turned the key, the engine coughing like it agreed I was done for.

  What now? Dumpster diving? Sleeping under a bridge? My head was a fog, thick and gray, swallowing every thought.

  I pulled onto the road, barely registering the traffic. The light ahead turned yellow, then red—I didn’t see it, didn’t care.

  My foot stayed on the gas, the sedan lurching forward. A horn bred, deep and frantic, snapping me out of it too te. I jerked my head up—a truck, massive, grille like a snarling mouth—barreled straight at me. No time to swerve.

  Metal screamed as it hit, the world exploding in a crunch of steel and gss. My leg twisted, pinned under the dash, pain searing up my spine like a white-hot bde. The windshield shattered inward, shards biting my arms, my face. My head smmed the steering wheel, vision blurring red, then bck. The st thing I heard was the truck’s horn fading into nothing.

  Then—silence. Darkness.

  I woke with a groan, head pounding like a jackhammer.

  Everything felt off—soft, heavy, wrong.

  A sharp ache throbbed in my leg, pinned under a cast.

  Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, hospital machines beeping.

  I shifted, wincing, and gnced down. Boobs. Big ones, pushing up the gown.