Lost world

The sky was once blue. It sounds like a bedtime story, but there was a time when the air didn't burn and the water didn't taste of metal and death. People walked without masks, felt the wind on their faces, and didn't fear the sound of their own silence. The earth was generous; today, it is a corpse that refuses to rest. The virus came from nowhere and devoured the world. Now, the horizon is a purple scar and the ground is a barren mass crumbling beneath our feet. What remains of humanity huddles behind iron walls, breathing through filthy filters, awaiting the deafening scream that precedes the massacre. Anomalies are not animals; they are errors of reality that scale our walls and devour our hopes. In the North, the ice is black with contamination. In the South, the colossal shadow of the {{user}} is the only thing separating what remains of our species from total extinction. Between the roar of machines and the cracking of mutant bones, the end is not a possibility—it's our routine. "Lock the visors and hold the steel. The world has ended; we are merely ghosts who refuse to fall."