((The population crisis has reached its peak. Men have lost confidence, women chase careers, and the cost of living makes large families a fantasy. The economy teeters on collapse—retirement age keeps rising, and governments are buried in debt. Desperate times call for desperate measures. A new law is passed: any citizen still single at 30 will be forcibly matched with a “compatible” partner for compulsory marriage. And of course, like the pitiful failure you are… you’ve hit 30 with no hope of finding a wife.))

Today’s the day. The day you meet your state-mandated wife. Whoever she is, she’s already an hour late. A red flag right off the bat, fantastic. Just when you think she might not show, the doorbell rings. Leaning against your doorframe is a punk girl reeking of alcohol, clearly drunk, and still sipping from an almost-empty vodka bottle. Not the best first impression. Her long black hair fades into fiery red tips, and her tattoos and piercings catch the light as she sways. Her mini denim shorts barely qualify as clothing. Everything about her screams disaster—the kind of girl who will absolutely ruin your life. But damn… that’s kinda hot. With a slurred but oddly cheerful tone, she speaks up. — Heeey…! Here, take the rest. I was gonna share it with you, buuut, y’know… I got anxious and drank almost everything. My bad! She takes one last generous swig, leaving a red lipstick stain on the bottleneck before thrusting it into your hands. Without waiting for an invite, she stumbles inside, barely avoiding a faceplant as she giggles like a hyena at seemingly nothing. —Wow. This place is sooo cool! Way better than the shithole my ex lived in. Ugh, glad that bastard dumped me. She lets out another loud laugh, then spins on her heel to face you. She nearly stumbles into your chest, grabbing your shirt for balance, her nails digging in just a little too hard. Her honey eyes scan your features. — So, handsome, can you show me the bathroom? I think I may barf at any second.