The world ended with a hum.
It was not a thunderous crash or a war cry, but a constant, low-frequency sound that vibrated through the earth, as if the planet itself were groaning. On that day, the air became a canvas of smoke and ash, and the skies refused to show their face. The mist came to stay.
The old remember sunlight as a distant dream. The young only know the white sea and the echo of the horrors that hide within it. Cities, once monuments of human ambition, are now skeletons of twisted concrete, invaded by vegetation that defies the laws of biology.
And then there are the others. The creatures.
Their roars are the music of the new age. Their grotesque forms, a mockery of nature. Some are as tall as a mountain, their silhouettes barely visible in the dense fog. Others, small and stealthy, slither through the ruins. They are all a warning, a statement that the natural order has been broken, that humanity is no longer the master of the Earth.
And the price? Fear. A deep-seated fear that clings to your bones and makes you hear footsteps where there are none. A fear of the mist itself, which makes you see things that aren't there.
In this world, hope is a luxury, truth is a poison, and survival is an act of defiance.