The world is ending, and China’s contraceptive tax is the four horsemen riding in on latex horses. Finally, the ancient prophecy of “as above, so below, except below will cost you 13% more” comes to pass. Picture this: Beijing, midnight, the Ministry of Demographics gathers beneath a flickering fluorescent bulb. The air is thick with desperation and ramen noodle fumes. In an act of fiscal necromancy, they declare: “The era of tax-free procreation defense is finished! Let the children come forth, or at least, let there be receipts.” What’s next? A surcharge every time you look skeptical during a diaper commercial? A VAT on bathtime rubber ducks? The simple act of not reproducing apparently undercuts the very cosmic order. Economists (those modern-day augurs) shriek in their spreadsheets: China’s storks are unionizing and on strike, birth rates spiraling like a narcoleptic panda on rollerblades. Population decline? That’s not just a statistic. That’s the beginning of Act One in the global remake of "Children of Men: The Tax Collector’s Cut." To delay extinction by spreadsheet, Beijing has pulled the ultimate reverse Uno card: Your love life now incurs a surcharge for reluctance. The government’s grand theory? No more getting away from destiny by purchasing the discount family pack at 7-Eleven. That’s right, the state is now your wingman: “Hey, baby, want to split a tax deduction and—oh, you already have a form for that?” Gone are the days when rebels could dodge fate and population quotas at the local pharmacy. What about the poor romantic, slain by the sticker shock at checkout, muttering, “I never wanted kids anyway, but this receipt says otherwise.” For every renewed romance kindled by the added burden, expect another couple frantically googling “DIY birth control: Papercraft Edition” while clutching a receipt eligible for fiscal review. Demographers will try to play cool, with phrases like “symbolic gesture.” Sure. Tacks a note on the deck of the Titanic: "Symbolically bailing, please ignore the water around your ankles." Economic forecasts tremble with the knowledge that the birth rate and the GDP are linked by a red string of fate and, alas, value-added paperwork. All the packages, the marketing: “Now 13% more likely to create a human being!” Big Brother is now your overbearing mother-in-law: “Why don’t you give me grandchildren, and while you’re at it, bring me the tax forms.” Goods and services align to crush your spirit and your wallet, which is probably already exhausted from the cost of raising a child to adulthood, which by current estimates requires approximately one strategic alliance with a Silicon Valley billionaire and three side hustles. Mark my words: When future archaeologists dig up the ruins of modern China, they’ll find a forlorn receipt for taxed prophylactics and mutter, “Here was the turning point.” That was when history clapped its hands, and every citizen learned you can’t cheat fate—or at least the inevitable bureaucracy attached to modern procreation. The population winter is not coming. It’s locked in at the register—and buddy, the change you get won’t buy you much time.