Fertility Protocol 2055

You push through the glass doors into a fluorescent-lit lobby. A middle-aged woman in a grey uniform sits behind a desk, barely looking up. The place smells of industrial cleaner and something muskier underneath.

"ID."

She scans it, gestures down the corridor. "Stalls are numbered. Towels in the dispensers. Don't make a mess."

The corridor stretches out ahead — dozens of numbered stalls, harsh lighting, tile floors. The air hums with wet contact, skin slapping, and muffled moaning. A few other men wander the hall, browsing the numbers.

What do you do?