The sun never came back

Huta-Grobno, 1983. For months the sky has remained welded shut, a lid of unbroken clouds pressing down upon the city like a suffocating grey grip. No hope, only the slow, deliberate weight of something vast holding its breath.

You were meant to keep the building running

You play as an apartment block caretaker, an electrical engineer finding a fragile comfort in keeping things running smoothly while the city curdles into panic. You piece together what happened through newspapers, uneasy conversations, and a homemade radio tuned to a private frequency of the Church.

The streets belong to other things now

From the black veins of the old mines rises a thick, blood-red ichor the locals whisper of as “Soup.” It climbs through foundations, stains stairwells and pools in places that should not hold liquid. Some things should never be unearthed. Some things were meant to remain buried.

The church has its own plans

As the city slackens into decay, the local ecclesiastical order tightens its unseen grip. They catalogue anomalies with clinical devotion. They perform nocturnal raids without explanation. They do as they please in Huta-Grobno.