They whisper of the Others—those who stayed behind when the cities fell silent. Some say they learned to commune with the machines, that they carved their minds into metal and called it rebirth. Others say it was a ritual, a merging of flesh and circuitry performed beneath fractured neon skies.

No one has ever seen it, only the aftermath: charred symbols etched into walls, echoes of laughter that distort through radio static, and the faint scent of ozone where the air should be still. Survivors call it the Macabre—a ceremony of transcendence or madness, depending on who you ask.

Those who’ve listened to the transmissions too long begin to change. They claim to hear voices inside the silence, promising release. And sometimes, just before the signal fades, a skull of light flickers in the dark—watching, waiting, remembering.