I always thought turning eighteen would feel different.
Maybe I'd feel taller. Stronger. Maybe I'd feel like a man.
Instead, I woke up in a cold sweat, breath caught in my throat, with something burning beneath my skin.
It started in my chest—a slow, searing heat just below my collarbone. I sat up, eyes adjusting to the shadows of my room. The clock read 2:07 AM. The silence was thick, like the house itself was holding its breath.
Then I saw it.
A faint glow pulsing against my skin. I pulled off my shirt, heart hammering, and stared at the symbol etched into my flesh. A rune—sharp, clean, and alive. It wasn't a tattoo. It shimmered with a silver-blue glow, shifting subtly with every heartbeat.
I touched it.
Pain lanced through me. I gasped.
Then came the voice. Not aloud—but inside my skull, smooth and deliberate, like silk sliding over steel.
"[SYSTEM BOOT COMPLETE.]"
I froze. My eyes scanned the empty room. I was alone.
"Welcome, Host. You are now under the E.R.O.S Protocol."
The voice was feminine. Not human. Calm. Seductive.
"Objective: Survive. Procreate. Persist."
"What... what the fuck is this?" I whispered.
"Condition: Non-Virgin."
A chill spread through my veins.
"Lifespan remaining: 72 hours."
A red timer appeared in the upper-right of my vision. I blinked, tried to shake it away. It didn't move. The digits ticked down with agonizing certainty:
[71:59:58]
I scrambled out of bed, chest rising and falling in panicked gasps. The glow of the rune was still there—imprinted like fire under my skin.
This had to be a dream. Some kind of psychotic break. I hadn't drunk anything. Hadn't smoked. I wasn't sick. So what the hell was this?
"WARNING: Failure to climax with a compatible partner within allotted time will result in full neurological shutdown and host death."
My mouth went dry. I stumbled into the bathroom and splashed water on my face. My reflection stared back at me—haunted, pale, eyes wide with disbelief.
"You've been chosen," the voice said again, softer now. "Your body has been awakened. Your seed is salvation. Every climax extends your existence. Every woman you pleasure grants you life... and power."
The mirror fogged as steam rose from the hot tap I'd accidentally twisted open. I leaned against the counter, breathing hard.
What kind of nightmare logic was this?
Then the pain returned—this time lower, in my gut, radiating into my thighs. My cock stiffened without warning, thick and pulsing. I groaned, gripping the edge of the sink.
"Initiation urges are normal. You are currently in Phase One."
A holographic panel blinked open in my mind. It showed my vitals. Heart rate: 144 bpm. Eros Energy: 2%. Orgasm Requirement: 1.
"You must complete physical union with a willing female partner within the next seventy-two hours to survive."
"And if I don't?" I hissed.
"You die."
The bluntness of the answer slammed into me like a truck.
I slid down against the wall, chest rising and falling. This was insane. It wasn't real. Systems didn't just appear in your body. People didn't just get hunted by a countdown because they hadn't gotten laid.
Except I had the proof carved into me. The pain. The arousal. The voice. The timer.
I tried to think logically. Could I—no. Could I masturbate to stop the timer?
"Self-stimulation will not satisfy system requirements."
Of course not.
"It must be a living woman. Consensual. Ejaculation must occur inside."
I was both nauseous and painfully hard.
The system seemed to sense my panic.
"We have scanned your neural familiarity zones. One compatible female is currently in your vicinity."
A small map blinked into my mental interface. The hallway. The stairs. Downstairs.
Room: Isabel Moreau.
I froze.
My stepmother's cousin.
Isabel.
She was staying with us again. She came and went like a wandering shadow. She'd been around since I was fourteen. She was warm, beautiful, the kind of woman you tried not to stare at when she bent over—but always did.
Curvy. Quiet. Kind. And utterly out of reach.
I gritted my teeth. "I'm not doing that."
"Then your death countdown proceeds."
The timer blinked:
[71:54:21]
Every tick sounded like a drumbeat in my head.
I paced. Back and forth. My heart thudded in my ears.
I couldn't just walk into her room. Couldn't throw myself at her. She was family—sort of. She'd helped raise me. Held me when I cried. Fed me soup when I was sick.
And yet the system didn't care. It was cold. Unfeeling. Alive only to push me toward the edge.
"You're not the first," it whispered.
I froze again. "What do you mean?"
But it didn't answer.
I looked down at the sigil. It pulsed again.
My skin burned. My cock ached. My lungs tightened.
And something deeper than logic stirred inside me.
Not just lust.
Survival.
A hunger that came not from want—but from need.
I ran a hand through my hair. My room felt like it was spinning. My thoughts scrambled, but Isabel's face—her lips, her eyes, her curves—rose in my mind like a forbidden prayer.
I could just talk to her. Just… explain it.
Would she believe me?
Would anyone?
"You will know what to do," the system whispered.
And somehow… I did.
I stepped out of my room.
Barefoot. Shirtless. Half-hard.
The hallway stretched before me, lit faintly by moonlight bleeding through the windows. Shadows danced on the wooden floor. The air was cool, laced with the faint scent of perfume—the kind Isabel wore. Vanilla. With something darker underneath.
I paused outside her door.
I could hear her breathing. Slow. Steady. Peaceful.
I raised my hand to knock.
And stopped.
My fingers curled around the doorknob.
And I stepped inside.
The carpet was soft under my feet. The room was dim but bathed in the same moonlight that had filled mine. Her figure was there, lying under thin sheets, her hair messy on the pillow. She looked younger like this—peaceful, unaware of what was coming.
The sigil burned.
My heartbeat thundered.
Her eyes fluttered open.
And met mine.