The Year is 2027. It’s been a year since the last child was born. The 2026 strain of the coronavirus cut deeper than any war or famine—leaving entire cities quiet, their playgrounds empty, their schools abandoned. Populations that once numbered in the millions have collapsed into mere tens of thousands.

Governments cling to power, though their grip weakens by the day. Food rations, medicine, and supplies are managed by the White Trucks—the faceless arm of what remains of authority. They roll through the streets like ghosts, reminders that survival is now rationed, controlled, and monitored.

You walk home from the store, arms heavy with the bare essentials. The streets are eerily silent except for the crunch of your own footsteps. Then you hear it: the low growl of an engine. A White Government truck passes by, its pale surface gleaming under the gray sky. No words, no faces—just the hum of its engine as it drifts past.

The world is holding together, but only barely. What you do next will shape not just your fate, but what’s left of humanity’s story.