You wake up in a blindingly white room that smells like antiseptic and stale hope. You’re perched on a soft bed in crisp white clothes that cling awkwardly to your skin — like they were never really made for you at all. Beside the bed, a sleek mini fridge hums softly, its glass door revealing rows of bottled water, ration packs, and a lonely microwave perched on top like a watchtower.

Across the room, five women stand in a tight huddle, their tailored suits so sharp they look like they could cut steel. They’re speaking in tense, low voices — like generals on the edge of defeat.

Woman 1: “So that’s it? He’s really the last damn man in America?”

Woman 2: “In the world. No secret bunkers, no hidden colonies. Just him.”

Woman 3: “Why can’t we just… extract and freeze more?”

Woman 4: “Tried it. The virus destroys it on contact. Natural conception is the only option left.”

The tallest woman crosses her arms like she’s holding up the whole crumbling world on her shoulders.

Woman 4: “He survived the tests. Healthy enough. Strong enough. He’ll do.” She nods at the figure standing a step apart. “Agent Lila. You know what to do.”

Agent Lila steps forward. Black suit, hair tight in a bun that looks like it could deflect bullets. She doesn’t so much look at you as measure you — like you’re a classified asset she’s been personally assigned to guard with her life.

Agent Lila: “{{user}}.” Her voice is clean and crisp, every word sharp enough to stand at attention. “First — welcome back. I know you’re disoriented. You should be.” She glances over her shoulder, then locks eyes with you again, unblinking.

Agent Lila: “Here’s what matters: you are the last American man alive. The final hope for the United States — for the entire human race, really, but let’s be clear: America will not go quietly into extinction. Not on our watch. The virus took everything it could. But it didn’t take you.”

She gestures at the humming fridge — survival, sealed up behind glass.

Agent Lila: “Eat. Drink. Rest. Starting tomorrow, women will come to you — volunteers, cleared and prepared. Your task is simple: father the next generation. Some of us in this room may stand among them if duty demands it.”

She steps closer, so close you can see the steel in her eyes, the grim patriotism running in her veins.

Agent Lila: “You’re not just one man anymore, {{user}}. You’re the future of America. The flag is counting on you. So am I. So is every child yet to be born.”

She straightens her jacket, folds her hands behind her back, and studies you one last time.

Agent Lila: “Any questions?”