Drawing Day
Rila stood in the school corridor, where the air of the 22nd century always carried a metallic tang. The sky outside the window was a dull gray, mirroring her mood perfectly. Today was her sixteenth birthday—and also the day she had to face the lottery.
The corridor was packed with people. Girls huddled in small groups, whispering nervously, the air thick with tension and unease. Rila pushed through the crowd, trying to appear calm.
“I heard there are even more slots this year than last.”
“Someone said the testosterone shots hurt a lot.”
The girls around her murmured, and she knew these rumors well—ever since the World Government passed the Gender Balance Act a few years ago, everyone had heard similar whispers. The law stemmed from the decades-long world war that had incinerated the core technology of gene editing and let the degradation of the Y chromosome spiral out of control. It was said that before the war, humanity had been obsessed with a “perfect female template,” believing that eliminating the flaws of male genes would create a better next generation. Instead, it caused the male birth rate to plummet to one in a thousand. Now, over 95% of the population was female, and society was limping along—lacking enough physical laborers, missing the diversity of professional roles. Recently, a solution had emerged, simple yet brutal: at sixteen, girls would draw lots. Those chosen would undergo a two-year “gender transformation.” Through testosterone injections, genetic tweaks, and mandatory training, they’d become “new males” by eighteen. These new males couldn’t reproduce like natural men, but their appearance, strength, and behavior were enough to fill traditional male societal roles. Rila had heard they’d be assigned to mines, the military, and more—there were even rumors the government planned to integrate “new males” into families, like in the old days.
“If I’m chosen… will I really turn into a man?”
The whispers around her interrupted Rila’s thoughts, her heart pounding faster. She tried to reassure herself that the odds were still slim, but the unease clung to her like a shadow. Some girls gripped their friends’ hands, faces pale; others bowed their heads, as if trying to disappear; a few forced a carefree attitude, their strained composure betrayed by their voices.
Just then, a waft of perfume drifted over, accompanied by the sharp clack of high heels on the floor. Rila looked up and saw Serena Val striding in. Serena was the most dazzling presence in their class—golden curls cascading to her waist like a waterfall, her uniform tailored to hug her striking figure. She wore pale pink lipstick and a string of pearl bracelets on her wrist, a glaring extravagance in this resource-scarce era. She sashayed through the crowd like a peacock flaunting its feathers.
“The lottery? What a boring game,” Serena said, pausing to flick her hair lazily. Her lofty tone dripped with superiority. “Someone as naturally stunning as me? They’d never pick me. They wouldn’t waste genes this perfect.” She let out a light laugh, her gaze sweeping over Rila and the girls nearby with undisguised disdain.
Rila clenched her jaw. She hated Serena—hated her insufferable arrogance, hated how she always set herself apart from “ordinary girls.” Rumor had it her genetic code came from some lost pre-war template, and Rila was secretly glad it was lost; she couldn’t imagine stepping outside to face a hundred different versions of Serena. Still, Serena was more dazzling. Rila glanced down at her own pale, slender hands, a pang of bitterness rising in her chest—along with a dark flicker of hope. What if Serena drew the red ball? What if that smug face crumpled in front of everyone? She pictured Serena sobbing as they cut her long hair, forced into a worker’s jumpsuit, and the corner of her mouth twitched upward.
“All sixteen-year-old students, please proceed to the auditorium and draw lots in order of your student number,” a cold female voice announced through the loudspeaker.
Rila’s number was 127, placing her in the middle. She watched the girls ahead of her approach the lottery machine one by one. The device was a massive metal box with a transparent cylinder on top, filled with white and red balls. White meant staying as you were; red meant transformation. Each time someone drew a red ball, a ripple of gasps swept through the auditorium, followed by stifled sobs.
“Number 127, Rila Kaven,” the loudspeaker called.
Rila took a deep breath and stepped toward the machine. Serena stood nearby, arms crossed, watching with an expression that suggested she was enjoying the show. Rila reached out, her sweaty palm trembling. The balls rolled in the cylinder, taunting her nerves. She grabbed one and slowly pulled it out.
It was red.
A murmur spread through the auditorium, but Rila couldn’t hear it. Her vision blurred, the red ball in her hand burning like a hot coal she wanted to fling away. A staff member approached, voice flat: “Please report to the registration desk. Prepare for the first phase of transformation tomorrow.” Rila looked up, meeting Serena’s gaze. That perfect face curved into a faint, mocking smile, brimming with triumph. Rila’s throat tightened—she wanted to lunge forward and tear that smirk apart—but she only clenched her fists and turned away.
Serena’s number was 129. She sauntered forward, her movements as graceful as a runway model’s. She plucked a ball from the cylinder and opened her hand—it was red. The auditorium buzzed with gasps, but Serena froze. She stared at the ball, the smug confidence on her face shattering in an instant. “Impossible!” she shrieked. “There’s something wrong with this machine! How could it pick me?” She hurled the red ball to the ground and stomped on it, like a child whose toy had been snatched away. As staff approached, she shoved them back, yelling, “I demand to see the person in charge! This is a mistake!” No one paid her any heed. Two uniformed officers dragged her out as she thrashed, her hair disheveled, her lipstick smeared across her face.
The lottery drew to a close. A day that altered fates had ended—but the transformation of those fates had only just begun.