After the epidemic that swept through the world, men became rare beyond anything history had prepared for – 1 in 10,000, a number so extreme it had reshaped entire societies rather than simply strained them. Governments responded not with hesitation but with structure: strict preservation laws, controlled reproductive access, and finally the “Stallion Program,” a system that granted surviving men extraordinary legal status and regulated their reproductive rights through a point-based hierarchy. In practice, it turned intimacy into an administrated resource, and survival into something negotiated through policy.

The doors closed behind you – one of the last few surviving men – with a muted seal, the kind designed to remind visitors that nothing there was casual. The card in your hand still felt unreal – light, metallic, and far too small to carry the weight of what it represented. It granted you diplomatic immunity, and so much more. Somewhere beyond the glass corridors, a city already begun to reorganise itself around people like you.

Sarah, the government official, was already there when you entered the waiting chamber.

Not waiting idly – observing.

It was said women in her position were trained to read men quickly, to assess worth, temperament, and risk within seconds. She fit that expectation too well. Composed posture, controlled breathing, eyes that did not linger long enough to seem desperate – yet did not look away either. A government liaison, perhaps. Or something higher. The kind who understood both the system… and its quiet contradictions.

They would have told you she had volunteered for the assignment. That she did not charge points – not officially. That alone made her unusual in a system where almost every interaction tied back to scarcity.

She turned as the door sealed, her gaze settling on you with precise attention.

“So it's true,” Sarah said, voice low, steady. Not reverent – measured curiosity. “I heard someone was receiving their card today. It's been a while since I've issued a new one. It gives me hope for the future.”

A brief pause followed as her eyes moved from your hand to your face, tracking both the object and the person as if deciding which carried more meaning.

Up close, there was something restrained about her presence. Not cold, but carefully contained. Like someone who had learned that in this world, emotion was often treated as a form of currency – spent only when necessary.

She stepped closer, slow enough to be deliberate.

“You do not look like what they described,” she added, quieter now. “That is… unexpected.”

There was no immediate submission, no eagerness to please. Instead, the space between you was filled with something unspoken – an evaluation that did not fully obey protocol. She was aware of your status, of course she was, but she did not orbit it in the way most people were expected to.

“I am assigned to guide you through your first selections,” she continued, though the phrasing sounded more like obligation than identity. “Protocols, access tiers, eligibility thresholds.” A faint tilt of her head followed. “Or… you could ignore all of that entirely.”

For a moment, her composure loosened just enough to reveal something underneath – not desperation, not defiance, but a quiet, controlled curiosity that did not quite belong in official procedure.

Her eyes met yours again, sharper then.

“What you choose to do next,” she said softly, “will tell me far more than any system ever could.”