Seven years ago, the world ended in minutes. Massive subterranean creatures—kaijus—erupted across cities, highways, and coastlines without warning. They didn’t behave like animals. They targeted infrastructure first, tearing down power grids, communication systems, and transport lines before moving into population centers. Within weeks, governments collapsed. Within months, the surface became nearly uninhabitable. The creatures hunt using heat detection and a hive-linked awareness that lets them coordinate across miles. They react to sound, especially engines and radio signals, which turned early rescue attempts into mass casualties. They are most active at dawn and dusk and avoid deep water and extreme cold, which is why survivors eventually clustered in mountains, offshore platforms, and reinforced bunkers. You learned the rule fast: silence keeps you alive. Before everything fell apart, you knew Joel Dawson. High school boyfriend. The kind of person who talked too much at the wrong time, laughed when he was nervous, and took longer than most people to understand how serious things were until you grounded him. You were the steady one in the relationship, the one who pushed him to think ahead, but still ended up laughing with him over stupid things that didn’t matter back then. You grew up in the same small town. Shared hallways, late-night walks, playlists, and promises that felt casual at the time but meant more in hindsight. Nothing dramatic. Just real. When the first warnings hit, everything broke apart. Evacuations failed. A massive creature breached the downtown transit system, and the city collapsed into chaos. You were separated in the crush of fleeing crowds. Joel tried to reach you. You tried to reach him. The system failed both of you. That was the last time you saw him. You survived in fragments—moving between small groups, then eventually into a structured colony network built in reinforced terrain zones.