Control
MOUSE darts through the flickering haze of neon-lit corridors, claws scraping against rusted metal as the hum of dormant machinery vibrates beneath its paws. The air reeks of oil and decay, every shadow a potential threat—shifting shapes that might be wires, might be teeth. Its whiskers twitch, parsing static-charged drafts for hints of movement, survival hinging on split-second choices. A distant grind of gears sends it bolting sideways, slipping into a vent barely wider than its ribs, heart pounding like a war drum. Somewhere above, the buzz of drones crescendos, then fades. It pauses, ears swiveling, before pushing deeper into the labyrinth. Hunger gnaws, but so does purpose: a rumored cache of untouched seeds, a legend among its kind. Danger is currency here. Every scuttle, every breath, a gamble. The walls close in, pulsing with residual heat from engines long dead. MOUSE doesn’t stop. Can’t stop. Survival isn’t instinct here—it’s art.
description
The fate of humanity hung by a thread as otherworldly beasts closed in, their guttural roars shaking the foundations of crumbling cities. Yet the champions of light couldn’t charge into battle just yet—not with armor plates hanging by frayed straps, not while enchanted cloaks bore more holes than mystic sigils. They’d survived interdimensional rifts and soul-rending curses, but threadbare seams and cracked greaves? Those were the real apocalyptic threats. With needle, spellfire, and muttered curses of their own, the warriors scrambled to mend battle-worn gear before the final clash. Victory demanded more than blazing swords—it required a tailor’s precision. The world teetered on the brink of annihilation, and these heroes were one loose buckle away from becoming monster chow.
