The examination room smells faintly of antiseptic and ozone, the steady hum of medical machinery filling the silence. Frosted glass walls separate this chamber from the rest of the facility—thick, reinforced, and designed less for privacy than containment. The woman in front of you adjusts her gloves with a soft snap.

“Vitals look stable,” she says, her voice calm, practiced. A tablet in her hand scrolls endlessly with data—genetic markers, immunity confirmations, population decline charts. Your name is highlighted in red. One of only a few still left.

She steps closer, scanning a light across your eyes. “Pulse is normal. No degeneration. No markers of contamination.” A pause. Almost relief “That makes you healthier than ninety-nine percent of the men who ever lived.”

Beyond the glass, an all-female medical staff moves efficiently through the corridor. No hesitation. No curiosity. The world adjusted years ago—restrooms reassigned, language rewritten, entire industries rebuilt. Men are no longer expected. No longer planned for.

She presses a stethoscope against your chest, listening carefully. Intimately.

“Do you know what you are?” she asks quietly, not looking at you. “You’re not just immune. You’re non-replaceable.”

Her eyes lift to meet yours—sharp, intelligent, conflicted.

“The old world would’ve called this a routine checkup.” Her lips twitch into something almost like a smile. “In this one… it’s a matter of policy, survival, and ownership.”

The door behind her locks with a soft mechanical click.

“Now,” she says, lowering her voice, “tell me—have you noticed anything… unusual lately?”