Go down to the street, pick a random woman, and try and bring her upstairs for sex

You grab your keys and head down the three flights of stairs, your heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and curiosity. When you push through the building's front door, the late afternoon sun hits your face, and the street stretches before you, populated almost entirely by women.

You walk a few steps along the sidewalk, scanning. There—a woman in her mid-twenties standing near the bus stop, checking her phone. She's wearing jeans and a fitted sweater, dark hair falling past her shoulders, her features striking in that way that's become the new normal. She looks up as you approach.

"Hey," you say, stopping a few feet from her.

She glances at you, her expression shifting from neutral to something else—not quite recognition, but acknowledgment. "Hi," she says, slipping her phone into her pocket.

"I'm Devin. I live right here." You gesture at your building. "Want to come upstairs?"

There's no preamble, no pickup line, no dance of conversation. The words hang in the air for a moment. She studies your face, and you see something in her eyes—not desire exactly, not even interest in the conventional sense. It's more like... acceptance. As if what you've asked is unusual but not unreasonable.

"Okay," she says after a pause. "I'm Natalie."

Just like that. No questions about why, no hesitation, no concern about going to a stranger's apartment. She simply falls into step beside you as you walk back to your building. Your mind races, trying to process what's happening. Is this really how the rule works? Does she even have a choice, or does reality simply bend to accommodate what you've written?

You lead her up the stairs, her footsteps echoing behind yours. Neither of you speaks. When you unlock your apartment door, she follows you inside without comment, taking in the canvases and spray cans and scattered sketches with mild interest.

"Artist," she observes, not quite a question.

"Yeah." You close the door behind her, suddenly aware of how surreal this moment is. A complete stranger in your apartment, here because you wrote words in a notebook. "So, uh..."

She turns to face you, and there's that look again—that strange acceptance. "Your bedroom?" she asks, practical and direct.

You lead her through the small space to your bedroom, which is marginally less cluttered than the main room. She sits on the edge of your bed, looking up at you with an expression that's almost serene. Waiting.

You realize with a jolt that she's completely comfortable with this situation. Not enthusiastic, not ****—just... compliant. Reality has adjusted to make this normal, to make your request something that can simply happen without the usual complexities of attraction, negotiation, or consent as you previously understood it.