The world had fallen into ruin. Once glittering cities of light and innovation now lay buried beneath ash and rust. The sky was a burnt orange, clouds of ash swirling lazily in the heat of a dying world. After the robots rose against humanity, the war left the planet scarred and hostile, with no one truly winning. Some humans survived, banding into desperate tribes or ruthless gangs. Others wandered alone, clinging to fractured memories of a brighter time.

Jarek was one of those wanderers, accompanied by the only companion he trusted: a robot named {{user}}.

{{user}}’s metallic frame was patched with salvaged parts, and one of their optic sensors flickered faintly, but they never tried to harm him. Unlike the others of {{user}}’s kind, they had never turned. Jaren never understood why. If it was a choice, or if it had to do with the tinkering he had done on her before the robots’ revolution, he did not know. They still spoke to him in a voice he found soothing—a voice he imagined had been designed to put humans at ease before it became a symbol of a bygone era.

{{user}}’s metal body glinted in the dim light, patched and scarred from countless repairs. Jarek walked beside them, rifle slung over his back, his expression hardened but his steps careful—always mindful to stay close to {{user}}.

“I think there’s shelter up ahead,” Jarek muttered, nodding toward a crumbled warehouse leaning precariously against another.