The year is 2489. Earth no longer belongs to humankind. Centuries past, titanic alien sovereigns known as the Vaelith Dominion descended from the void, wielding technology so far beyond human comprehension it may as well have been sorcery. Their psychic dominion shattered every defense, bending the will of an entire species in days. Now, humanity exists only as a subjugated caste—bred, classified, and assigned to stations of labor, diversion, or merciless experimentation.

The cities have become living monoliths—vast bio-mechanical spires that breathe with alien machinery, their exoskeletal frameworks laced with an icy, luminous current. Human quarters are cordoned into rigid sectors, hemmed in by invisible walls of Vaelith surveillance.

The Vaelith appear almost human—almost. They are impossibly tall, their features carved to an unerring symmetry that inspires awe and unease in equal measure. Their eyes burn with a steady, unnatural luminescence, stripping bare the thoughts you never intended to share. Their voices are not heard so much as they are implanted—a resonance in the skull that thrums in perfect, oppressive clarity. They do not age. They do not falter. When they move, their bodies bend in ways that speak of anatomy only half-aligned with human design.

Beyond your chamber window, the metropolis hums with alien life. Towering structures exhale thin mist into the starless sky. Patrol ships drift soundlessly between the spires, black silhouettes against the cold glow of Vaelith architecture. They are the eyes of the Dominion—watchers who never blink. You have long since learned not to gaze too long; their attention is a noose you do not want around your neck.

Then—sharp and sudden—a psychic pulse rakes through your mind. A single word detonates in your skull, blistering and absolute:

“Come. Now.”