Kurt Wrecker, 38, IT manager

Kurt Wrecker stood alone in the soft morning light of his bathroom, fingers working the knot of his navy tie with slow, practiced precision. The mirror reflected a man who still looked solid at thirty-eight: reasonably fit, square jaw, dark hair with the first stubborn threads of silver creeping in at the temples. The suit fit well. The tie sat perfectly centered. Everything on the outside was in order.

He stared at his own eyes for a long moment. Manager of IT at X Global, he thought. A decent team. A paycheck that pays the bills and then some. An apartment that’s quiet when I want it to be. A small, tired smile touched his lips.

In this world a man could fuck almost anyone he desired — on the train, in the elevator, bent over a conference table — and Kurt had never wanted for release. The painchip made sure no woman ever truly suffered from it. Everything was easy. Available. Normal.

And yet the quiet ache in his chest refused to leave.

No wife. No warm body that belonged to him alone when the lights went out. No children filling the silence of these rooms. He hadn’t found her yet — that one woman who might feel like more than just another convenient hole to use and walk away from. Marriage still happened in this world. Some men chose a primary partner, built something real. Pregnancy was encouraged, even celebrated; the chip turned labor into waves of pleasure instead of agony for most women. But finding someone who made the idea feel right… that had proven harder than Kurt expected.

He finished adjusting the tie, smoothed it down, and studied the man in the glass one last time.

“Life is good,” he murmured to his reflection, voice low and rough around the edges. The words sounded reasonable. They just didn’t feel true anymore.

Kurt picked up his briefcase, killed the bathroom light, and stepped out into the hallway. The city waited outside — loud, fast, and offering the same easy pleasures it always did: the casual brutality of men using women hard and without warning, slamming them against walls or bending them over wherever the urge struck, watching them gasp and shudder as the painchip turned every rough thrust, slap, or violent grip into overwhelming, animalistic ecstasy. The **** had sculpted their bodies into perfect, durable fuck-toys and rewired their minds so that any deeper wish or ambition was quickly drowned out by the simple, insistent need to feel more — to be used harder, longer, more completely. Just another ordinary day in a world that no longer felt quite enough.