Chapter 1
Kevin shoved his hand into the family-sized bag of chips, scavenging for that one perfect specimen—the one with the ideal curve and a thick crust of salt. On his monitor, a vintage horror flick was playing; some B-movie where zombies were clumsily trying to dine on the protagonists' brains.
"Who even runs like that?" Kevin muttered, washing down the salt with a swig of ice-cold Cola. "Just lock the damn door, you moron."
At that exact moment, the screen flickered. The image shattered into a mess of pixels before being replaced by a jarring, high-contrast graphic: «EMERGENCY BROADCAST». Kevin froze. At twenty-one, he was used to "bad news" meaning hiked GPU prices or a favorite MMO shutting its servers, but the news anchor’s face looked like a man who had just been handed his own death warrant.
"Citizens, please remain calm... if that is even a possibility," the anchor’s voice trembled. "The government’s 'Be Fruitful and Multiply' initiative, designed to kickstart our declining birth rates, has suffered... a specific fiasco. The 'Aphrodite-Z' virus has mutated."
Kevin set the chips aside.
"The target is the female brain," the anchor continued, nervously adjusting his tie. "Infected females lose all reason, transforming into... aggressive nymphomaniacs. Physical symptoms include dilated pupils, a bluish skin tint, and facial deformities resembling catastrophic plastic surgery—bloated lips, massive, crooked cheekbones. They do not accept the word 'no.' Men, remember: refusal is punishable by death. You will be quite literally devoured by their lust. Women, take note: the virus erases all boundaries of orientation. If you do not reciprocate their demands for physical intimacy, you will be infected via a bite."
"What kind of bullshit..." Kevin breathed out, feeling his stomach twist into a knot.
Suddenly, a crash echoed from behind the news desk. A woman in a shredded business suit burst into the frame. Her face looked like it had been pumped with Botox using a construction-grade compressor, and her eyes burned with a hungry, feral fire.
"Sweetie-pie!" she shrieked in a voice that could make ears wilt.
She tackled the anchor right onto the desk, crushing the microphones. The live feed descended into chaos: the sound of tearing fabric, wet, slopping kisses, and the poor guy’s desperate screams: "Not the zipper! My mom is watching this!" The screen went black.
Slowly, as if in a trance, Kevin walked to the window and nudged the curtain aside. His quiet suburb had turned into a branch office of a psych ward.
A drama was unfolding right below him. Nick, the meathead neighbor who just last Thursday was bragging about "scoring with every girl in the zip code," was currently setting a world record for the 100-meter sprint. Behind him, panting heavily and reaching out with neon-pink manicured claws, was a pack of ladies who looked like botched cosmetic surgery victims.
"I need my personal space!" Nick wailed, vaulting over a hedge. "Today was leg day! I’m not in condition for this!"
"Don’t be a tease, pookie! We’re gonna make you so happy!" the choir screamed back, sending shivers down Kevin’s spine.
Further down the street, near a wrecked car, Kevin saw something that nearly made him retch. A delivery guy—who had apparently tried to politely decline a group of "heated" zombie-ladies—was sprawled on the asphalt. Having been denied their "prize," the furious furies had literally begun tearing him limb from limb.
Kevin backed away from the window and stared at his locked front door.
He had always dreamed of girls noticing him. He was a quiet, shy virgin who turned bright red just talking to the supermarket cashier.
"My God," he whispered, glancing at the empty chip bag. "I think this is the one case where 'dying a virgin' sounds like the best plan for the evening."
A sudden, insistent knock thudded against the door.
"Ke-e-evin..." a voice cooed from the hallway. It was his neighbor, the librarian, but her voice now sounded like sandpaper on a chalkboard. "I know you’re in there-e-e... I ran out of salt... and patience-e-e..."
Kevin froze as the doorknob began to slowly turn downward. The locks in his place were flimsy—the kind you get in cheap housing where the only "valuables" are a collection of anime figurines.
"Mrs. Harris," Kevin stammered, backing toward the wall. "You... you don't understand! Relationships aren't just about instincts! It’s like... a dance of souls. Flowers, walks in the park, discussing classic literature... we should get to know each other first!"
"I already checked your social media, Kevin," the voice rasped through the wood. "You like pineapple pizza and shy girls. I can be shy... for the first three seconds! Open up, my little philosopher!"
The door frame gave a pathetic groan. Kevin realized Mrs. Harris couldn't care less about "soul-searching." As the first heavy blow struck the door, sending plaster flying, he knew his sensitive nature wouldn't survive physical contact with a librarian whose lips were now—according to the news—the size of two overripe eggplants.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Harris, but I'm a fan of traditional values!" he yelled.
Grabbing his windbreaker and the keys to the shop where he worked, Kevin didn't think twice. He lunged for the window. The second floor wasn't that high—not when the alternative was becoming a "snack" for a woman who had lost her mind.
