Kurt stepped off the transit line into the E-rank district, and the change was immediate.
The air was different here. It was thicker and you could taste the sweat and desperation coming off the place.
The buildings were older, their facades cracked and patched with makeshift repairs, and just like in the F rank district, graffiti covered every available surface, but it wasn't as crude and aggressive.
Street vendors hawked questionable goods from rickety stalls, and the people moved with the kind of wary tension that came from living somewhere you could never fully relax.
Like all districts, the E district was like a country with its own twisted sovereignty, filled with multiple large cities. Kurt was currently in Zulon City, and even with an address in his possession, finding the Foxhole would take a miracle, or a shit load of luck.
This city was simply just another territory where surviving was a battle. People here scraped by, fought for every scrap, and trusted no one.
Kurt had barely taken ten steps when a voice called out behind him.
"Kurt!?"
He stopped, turning slowly. A man with a bright red mohawk and a nose ring was pointing at him from across the street, his friends clustered behind him.
The man started walking over and his lips widened into a wide grin that looked friendly but Kurt knew better.
Kurt raised a hand. "Sorry, mate. I need to be somewhere."
The mohawk guy who was apparently named Razor, based on the name stitched onto his jacket, clapped a hand on Kurt's shoulder and shouted back to his friends. "Guys, it's really Kurt!"
Before Kurt could say another word, a fist slammed into his gut.
The air left his lungs in a rush, and he doubled over, wheezing. Pain rushed through his abdomen, and he barely managed to stay on his feet.
"Where's my money, Kurt?" Razor growled, looming over him.
Kurt raised a finger, gasping for breath. "I've got this... amnesia thing, yeah? So I don't really remember who you are."
Another punch, harder this time, drove into his ribs and Kurt staggered, coughing. So much good his luck stat did him. Barely a few steps in and he was already getting punched repeatedly.
"Last I heard, you were dead," Razor said, shaking out his knuckles. "Thought you could skip out on me, huh? And now you've got amnesia? That's rich."
Razor's friends were already close, laughing. One of them, a wiry guy with a pierced lips, slapped Razor on the back. "Can you believe this guy?"
Razor gestured at Kurt with his thumb, grinning. "Amnesia. Classic Kurt excuse."
Kurt straightened as much as he could, still clutching his ribs and forced a grin despite the pain. "Look, Razor, mate—I'm not saying I didn't owe you. I'm saying I literally can't remember owing you. Big difference."
Razor crossed his arms. "Yeah? And why the hell should I believe that?"
Kurt pulled the crumpled card from his pocket, the one with The Foxhole's address, and held it up. "Because I'm heading here. The Foxhole. Got business. Once I'm done, I'll be flush, and you'll get your money. Every penny. With interest, even. Scout's honor."
Razor snatched the card, squinted at it, and snorted. "The Foxhole? You're going to a whorehouse for 'business'?"
"Best kind of business, innit?" Kurt said, his grin widening despite the throbbing in his gut. "Come on, mate. I'm good for it. Always have been. Just need a bit of time."
Razor studied him for a long moment, then handed the card back. "Fine. But if you try to run again, Kurt, I'll find you. And next time, it won't just be your ribs."
"Yeah, I think you've made that pretty clear," Kurt said, holding his ribs.
Razor pointed down the street. "Well, you're in the right city, just the wrong block. Three blocks that way. Can't miss it. Big neon sign, looks like a fox." He leaned in close and his hot breath smelt of booze. "My money, Kurt. Don't make me come find you."
"Loud and clear," Kurt said. Perhaps his luck was turning around. This was the miracle he hoped for, and all he had to pay for it was a few gut wrenching punches. Fantastic.
Razor and his crew walked off, laughing and shoving each other. Kurt waited until they were out of sight, then let out a long breath and rubbed his ribs. "Just what I bloody needed," he muttered.
He straightened his coat, frantically searching for a pack of cigarette only to be hit with the realization that he was out.
"Bugger," he groaned in frustration and started walking.
The E-rank district, Zulon City, unfolded around him as he moved deeper into its heart. The streets were narrow and crowded, lined with shops that sold everything from counterfeit IDs to stolen dungeon loot.
Music blared from open windows, competing with the shouts of street preachers and the hum of malfunctioning neon signs.
People watched him as he passed, their eyes sharp and assessing. Some looked away quickly. Others stared too long, weighing whether he was worth the trouble.
Kurt kept walking, his hands in his pockets, and projected the kind of easy confidence that said, I'm not prey.
He passed a pair of guards shaking down a vendor with threatening voices. Passed a woman leaning against a wall, her eyes hollow and distant like she was high on something.
Kurt kept moving through the streets of the city when another voice called out behind him.
He'd learned his lesson the last time 'keep walking, pretend you heard nothing.' he thought to himself.
But as the voice grew closer and more insistent, he caught the unmistakable tone of a woman, and against his better judgment, he stopped.
He turned to find a brunette woman in black lipstick striding toward him, wearing a tight black dress.
As she approached, her hips swayed with each step, the dress riding up slightly with the movement to reveal the smooth curve of her thighs.
"It's really you," she stopped directly in front of him, and without warning, her palm cracked across his face in a resounding slap. "You piece of shit! She was my sister!"
Before Kurt could process the sting spreading across his cheek, she grabbed his collar and yanked him down, her mouth crashing against his aggressively.
Her tongue forced its way past his lips, exploring, while her hands fisted in his hair. A low moan vibrated from her throat into his mouth as she pressed her body against him, and he felt the soft give of her breasts flatten against his chest through the thin fabric.
Her legs began climbing up his body, one thigh hooking around his hip as she ground herself against him.
The dress rode up with the movement, exposing the curve of her ass barely covered by a thin strip of lace, and she kissed him harder as her hips rolled in a rhythm that left no question about what she wanted.
Another moan escaped her, breathier this time, almost desperate. Then she gasped and tore herself away, leaving Kurt's lips swollen and wet.
SLAP!
Again, without warning, her hand flew up, catching his other cheek so hard that his head tilted slightly to the side.
She stumbled back a step, breathing hard, and yanked her dress down where it had bunched around her waist, covering the flash of her ass and the damp lace between her thighs.
"Hmm," she cleared her throat, smoothed her hair with trembling fingers, and turned on her heel without another word.
Kurt stood frozen in the middle of the street, one hand rising to touch his burning face, utterly confused about what the bloody hell just happened.
So far, he could tell that the E-rank district definitely wasn't the hell most people described it as. But it was close enough to see it from here.
"What are the bloody odds? Two crazy encounters in the same godforsaken city," Kurt said to no one, still rubbing his face.
Three blocks later, Kurt found The Foxhole, and it was exactly what one would expect from a whore house.