It started in the forgotten depths of Tuga's Labyrinth — something old, woken by accident. Hunger turned to infection, infection to collapse. The first weeks were loud. Then the static settled in.
The virus never stopped changing. Some infected got faster, some quieter, some shaped by what waits below. Cities thinned out. Bunkers filled and emptied. The world kept moving without anyone left to record it.
What's left is a patchwork of ruins, supply runs, and bad weather — and a few people stubborn enough to keep building inside it.
