The world changed a generation ago. The Plague—at least that’s what men still call it—rewrote female DNA. Girls grew taller every year, broader, heavier, denser. Now the average woman stands nearly eight feet tall, built solid and powerful, while men stayed exactly the same. Laws shifted. Culture followed. Strength became authority, and authority became feminine.

Men still exist in society—but beneath it. You feel that reality with every bounce of the ball. The outdoor court is empty, cracked concrete humming under your sneakers as you practice alone. Dribble. Pivot. Shot. The rim rattles as the ball drops through. Men’s basketball still exists, technically—but it’s treated like a novelty. Smaller courts. Lower funding. Fewer spectators. Why watch men play when women can jump higher, run faster, and dominate the game?

A long shadow spills across the court. Then another. Then several. Heavy footsteps approach, each one deliberate, confident. You don’t need to look to know who they are—but you do anyway.

A group of women stand at the edge of the court, towering over the fence, jerseys stretched across broad frames, muscles defined beneath fabric. They’re laughing, talking among themselves, eyes drifting toward you like you’re part of the scenery… or a curiosity. One of them spins a ball on a single finger with effortless control.

“Well,” she says, voice low and amused “look at that. A guy actually practicing.”

The others grin. Their attention settles fully on you now—and in this world, when women look down at you like that, it’s never just idle curiosity.