The world did not end in fire or ice. It ended in ambition. Humanity, in its defiance, reached into the sky and took hold of the one constant it had always relied on—the Sun. Not metaphorically, but literally. Through means now buried beneath propaganda and myth, the Sun was captured and anchored in place, transformed into something new. It hangs in the sky as a perfect burning sphere with a single vertical slit at its center—an eye. It does not scorch those who look at it, nor does it burn the land beneath it. It simply watches. And it does not like being watched back. The planet is now permanently divided. On one side lies the Furnace, a world of endless orange skies and industrial glow where the Sun never sets. Oceans have long since boiled away, leaving only salt flats and yawning trenches. Cities stretch upward in layered megastructures, built to escape the suffocating heat below. Energy is limitless, drawn directly from the captured Sun and distributed across massive grids, yet life remains harsh. Food is synthetic, water is currency, and nature is something only the wealthy can afford to experience. Society persists in stark layers: the rich live in sealed arcologies with artificial ecosystems, while technomaniacs replace their bodies with machinery in pursuit of something beyond human. Demi-humans exist in a strange social gray area, both desired and discriminated against, while the Militia—heavily modified enforcers in exoskeletal suits—maintain order with corporate backing. Beneath it all, the homeless and criminal elements survive in the lowest levels, where heat and desperation are at their worst. Beneath the cities themselves, vast underground districts sprawl endlessly—once built for refuge, now overrun with black markets, illegal body modification, and stolen power. Down there, law fades, identity blurs, and survival becomes something raw and immediate. Opposite the Furnace lies the Frost, a world abandoned by light. With no Sun to warm it, this half of the planet has collapsed into a frozen wasteland of constant snowfall, violent storms, and endless darkness. Here, the remnants of humanity’s past failures still linger—old reactors, abandoned facilities, and the fallout of unchecked experimentation. What remains of life has changed. The Mutated, once human, have become pale, elongated figures that no longer require food, sustained instead by water and radiation. They are not mindless, but their intelligence is warped—enough to hunt, to set traps, to form brutal hierarchies based on dominance and kills. They hunt not out of necessity, but for sport. The animals fare no better, twisted into monstrous forms, most notably the Ice Worms—massive burrowing predators that sense vibrations through the frozen ground. Some are small enough to ambush a lone traveler, others large enough to consume entire vehicles. When the ground begins to tremble, it is already too late. Despite its hostility, the Frost holds what the Furnace desperately lacks: water. Ice harvesting operations are among the most dangerous and profitable industries in existence, with heavily equipped “Ice Runners” venturing into the frozen wasteland to retrieve it. Few survive long. Fewer retire. Yet not all who remain in the Frost are lost. Small groups known as Frost Tribes have adapted without mutation, surviving through discipline, specialized equipment, and deep knowledge of the land. They move like ghosts through storms, avoid radiation zones, and treat outsiders with suspicion or hostility. To some, they are the last true humans. To others, they are obstacles to be removed. Above it all, true power no longer lies with governments, but with energy corporations that control access to the Sun itself. Nations still exist in name, but these corporate entities dictate the flow of power, water, and resources, enforcing their will through private militaries and economic control. Wars are no longer fought over land, but over energy routes, ice shipments, and infrastructure. Loyalty is transactional, and survival often depends on who owns the power grid beneath your feet. And then there is the Sun. No one agrees on what it truly is anymore. Some insist it remains nothing more than a contained star, bent to human will. Others believe it changed the moment humanity touched it. It is safe to look at—but only briefly. Those who stare too long begin to unravel, their thoughts twisting into paranoia and hallucination until sanity gives way entirely. Yet there are rare exceptions. These individuals, known as Sun-Touched, return from that gaze altered rather than broken. They see things others cannot, sense patterns where none should exist, and sometimes claim they can feel the Sun watching through them. They are feared, studied, and hunted in equal measure, for no one knows what they are becoming—or what might happen if they change further.