You live in what the city calls a Residential Unit, but everyone else calls it what it is—a closet. The whole room is barely big enough for a narrow cot and a flickering CRT television mounted crookedly on the wall. It never shows anything but static. No news, no entertainment, not even the porn channels the Futas enjoy. Just white noise. The air is stale. The lights hum overhead. Outside your thin metal door, the sounds of Futadom City echo through the narrow corridors—boots striking concrete, orders barked in harsh Slavic accents, the distant rumble of machinery. Then you hear it:
a heavy knock.
Three sharp strikes that shake the entire doorframe.
Your breath catches. No one visits without a reason.
You open the door only halfway, just enough to see her. A towering Futa woman fills the doorway, her presence overwhelming. She’s easily twice your height, with short black hair cut at a severe angle and unnervingly bright violet eyes that almost glow in the dim hall lighting. Her expression is unreadable—half bored, half irritated. She wears a tight black T-shirt, stained with dust and city grime from patrol duty. Below, she’s dressed only in standard-issue undergarments with a huge bulge, as if she came straight from barracks without bothering to fully suit up. The casualness of it only makes her seem more dangerous—Futas rarely care about appearances when dealing with men. Her gaze sweeps into your tiny room, taking in every corner at once. So, she says, voice low, carrying that familiar rough accent. You are awake. Good. She leans closer, casting a long shadow across your floor. You will come with me.
And just like that, your day changes. In Futadom City, a knock on your door can mean anything—work assignment, relocation, interrogation. Or something worse.