The interior was exactly what he expected: dim lighting, wooden tables with scratches on them, and the smell of cheap alcohol.
A handful of patrons sat scattered around the room, nursing drinks and avoiding eye contact. The bartender was a thick-set woman with brown short, wavy hair, a toothpick between her lips and an expression that suggested she'd seen a lot and been unimpressed by most of it.
Kurt walked to the bar and sat down. "What's good here?"
"Nothing." The bartender didn't look up from the glass she was cleaning. "Everything's shit. Pick your poison."
"Bourbon, then. Straight."
She poured him a glass and slid it across the bar. Kurt took a sip and it tasted indeed like shit, which felt appropriate.
"You new to the district?" the bartender asked, eyeing him.
"You could say that. Woke up in an alley about an hour ago with no memories and a headache. Standard Tuesday, really."
She snorted. "Amnesia. That's a new one. Usually people around here are trying to forget shit, not remember it."
"Yeah, well, I'm an overachiever." Kurt took another sip. "Mind if I ask you something?"
"Depends on the question."
"What's the deal with this place? The ranks, the districts, the... everything?"
The bartender set down her glass and studied him. "You're not fucking with me?"
"Not a bloody clue," Kurt replied.
She studied him for a moment longer, then shrugged and leaned against the bar. "This is the F-rank district. Bottom of the barrel. If you're here, you're either powerless, weak as hell, or fucked up enough that no one else wants you."
Kurt leaned back on the stool and pulled a cigarette from his pocket, then lit it and took a drag.
"F-rank," he repeated, smoke curling from his lips. "I take it there are other ranks?"
The bartender laughed and it was a humorless sound. "You really don't know shit, do you? Yeah, there are other ranks. Seven of them, to be exact. F, E, D, C, B, A, S. And if you're stupid enough to believe the legends, there's the SS and SSS above that, but no one's seen those in a minute."
Kurt exhaled smoke and watched it curl toward the stained ceiling, processing the hierarchy she'd just laid out. "And what determines your rank?"
"Essence," the bartender said, crossing her arms as she settled into her explanation. "Everyone's got it, but not everyone can use it. Some people are born with rich wells... natural talent, strong bodies, sharp minds. They cultivate it, train it, absorb monster cores from dungeons, risky but effective way to grow stronger faster, and climb the ranks."
A drunk at the end of the bar slammed his glass down, interrupting her flow. "Another!"
The bartender grabbed the glass without looking, refilled it like a bartending pro, and slid it back down the bar in one smooth motion before continuing as if nothing had happened.
"Others?" She gestured around the bar with her chin. "Others are stuck at the bottom. No matter how hard they work, they'll never break past F or E. It's just the way it is."
"Dungeons," Kurt said, testing the word on his tongue while tapping ash into a tray on the bar.
"Tears in reality," the bartender explained, pulling a bottle from under the bar and biting the cap off before taking a drink. "Showed up fifty years ago and turned the world upside down. Monsters, treasure, essence, all of it spills out of those things. Guilds make their money clearing them, and as I mentioned, if you're strong enough, you can absorb the cores and get stronger yourself."
She set the bottle down with a heavy thunk. "But if you're not? Then don't risk absorbing cores and accept your fate for the weakling you are."
Kurt exhaled, letting the information settle in his mind like stone in still water. "And the districts?"
"Each rank gets its own district filled with big cities," she said, picking the bottle back up and gesturing with it as she spoke. "F-rank is this shithole. You could say the E district is for the working-class. D-rank is for the middle-class. C-rank and above? That's where the real money is. The higher you climb, the better your life gets. Access to better dungeons, better resources, better everything."
She took another swig, then fixed him with a pointed look. "But you can't just walk into a higher district without proving your rank. The D.A enforce it, and they don't fuck around."
Kurt absorbed the information and processed it, the pieces falling into place. He had no idea what the D.A was, but it made sense in a harsh, unforgiving kind of way. Power determined everything. The weak stayed at the bottom, and the strong rose to the top.
"So if I wanted to climb," Kurt said, tapping on his cigarette, "I'd need to get stronger. Join a guild, clear dungeons, all of that."
"That's the idea," the bartender said, taking another drink and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "But most people don't make it past their starting rank. Talent's a bitch, and death's even worse. You die in a dungeon, no one's coming to save you. Your body gets left behind, and your guild moves on."
Kurt smirked, something dark and amused shifting across his face. "Sounds like my kind of place."
The bartender snorted, a genuine laugh escaping her this time. "You've got balls, I'll give you that."
Kurt took another sip of the terrible bourbon, then glanced at the direction of the faded sign above the bar. "The Gaping Ass. Hell of a name."
The bartender's lips curved into something that might have been a smile. "Keeps people honest about what they're walking into."
"Fair enough."
Just as he was about to take another sip of his god-awful drink, the door to the bar opened and the entire room's energy shifted like someone had flipped a switch.
Two people walked in, and Kurt immediately understood why the atmosphere had changed.
The woman moved through the bar like she owned it, and maybe she did in all the ways that mattered.
She wore tight denim shorts that were low on her hips and cut short enough to give her full freedom of movement, a leather jacket hanging open over a dark grey tank top, and an expression that said she'd killed people for less than unwanted eye contact.
Kurt noticed the confidence first, the way she carried herself, and then the body. A toned stomach, curves the tank top didn't even try to hide, the way her hips swayed as she walked with purpose.
She was stunning, the kind of woman who could stop traffic or start a war, but it was the way other patrons immediately looked away that told Kurt everything he needed to know.
She was dangerous.
The man who came in with her was built like a tank. He had broad shoulders, a square jaw with a military haircut that suggested discipline. He didn't swagger or posture, didn't need to when his mere presence did all the talking.
People moved out of his way before he got close, some primal instinct telling them he was the kind of man you didn't test unless you had a death wish. He carried himself like someone who'd been in command so long he'd forgotten what taking orders felt like.
They walked to a table in the corner and sat down, the woman draping herself across the chair with casual arrogance while the man settled slowly. The bartender tensed slightly, a subtle shift in her posture that Kurt noted with interest.
"Friends of yours?" he asked quietly.
"Raven's Crow Guild," she said, voice dropping to a whisper. "They run jobs out of the D District. Sometimes they come down here looking for desperate idiots to fill out their parties."
For a second there, the name sounded familiar to him but he shook his head. "And they are dangerous?"
"That's Rook Jones," she muttered, nodding toward the man with something that might have been respect or fear, possibly both. "B-rank. Runs the Raven's Crow. Also another person you don't wanna fuck with."
"And the woman?" Kurt asked, his gaze lingering on her as she leaned back in her chair.
"Emma Lance. His second-in-command. C-ranked hunter, mean as hell, and she's got a body count that'd make you piss yourself."
Kurt watched as Emma propped one leg up on the table with careless confidence. She said something to Rook, all low and serious, and he nodded with an expression that suggested they were discussing business.
Then Emma's gaze shifted, sweeping across the bar with indifference at first, and when her eyes locked onto Kurt she froze completely.
Her lips parted slightly and her entire body went rigid. For a long moment, she just stared at him with an expression that mixed shock and something Kurt couldn't quite place, something that looked almost like... recognition?
Then she stood abruptly and her chair scraped against the floor with a harsh sound that cut through the low murmur of conversation.
"Emma?" Rook said, looking up at her with confusion on his face.
She didn't answer, didn't even glance at him as she crossed the bar in long, deliberate strides.
Conversations died in her wake like candles snuffed out. Someone's glass stopped halfway to their mouth, frozen in place. Even the drunk at the end of the bar looked up, suddenly sober enough to recognize trouble when it walked past him.
Kurt stayed where he was, cigarette dangling from his lips, and met her gaze without flinching or looking away.
She stopped a few feet in front of him, chest rising and falling with sharp breaths, grey eyes locked onto his face like she was trying to solve a puzzle that shouldn't exist.
Up close, she was even more striking than he'd first thought. Sharp cheekbones, full glossy lips, and grey eyes that looked like they belonged to a sociopath.
Kurt felt his pulse kick up a notch; part attraction, part danger recognition, and maybe both were the same thing when it came to a woman like this.
"No fucking way," she breathed, the words barely audible.
Kurt raised an eyebrow, displaying a casual curiosity he didn't entirely feel. "Can I help you?"
Her grey eyes narrowed into slits and her whole body coiled tight like a spring ready to snap. "You're dead. I fucking watched you die in a dungeon three days ago."
Kurt took another drag of his cigarette and exhaled slowly, the smoke drifting between them like a veil. "Clearly not."
Emma's hand twitched at her side, fingers curling into a fist, and for a second Kurt thought she might actually hit him. Instead, she stepped closer until she was right in his personal space and her scent triggered something that made his heart beat just a little bit faster.
"What kind of game is this?" she demanded, her voice low and intense.
Kurt looked at her properly, taking in every detail of her face while searching his fractured memory for any hint of recognition, any spark of familiarity.
She was stunning, absolutely captivating in a way that went beyond just physical beauty, but when he dug through his mind for any memory of her, he found absolutely nothing.
"Do I know you?" he asked, and meant it.
Her expression shifted instantly from surprise to anger, to hurt, before the rage covered it. "Cut the bullshit, Kurt. Where the hell have you been?"
Kurt went completely still, his cigarette burning forgotten between his fingers.
His name. She'd said his name.
Kurt.
The sound of it hung in the air between them, undeniable and real, and suddenly everything else in the bar faded into white noise.
She knew who he was, which meant someone, somewhere, had answers to the questions that had been eating at him since he woke up in that alley.
"I'm sorry," he said carefully, watching her face for any reaction, "but I have absolutely no idea who you are."
***
A/N: I hope you're enjoying this so far. Add to Library and send a power stone or two if you're. Thank you and peace!