By 2100, Earth was no cradle—it was a crucible.

A magnetic pole shift, faster than any in geologic memory, flipped in a decade, unleashing a Carrington-class storm that didn't just fry satellites and erase digital archives; it tore a hole in the sky, bathing the world in a constant, unsettling electromagnetic haze. Grids didn't just plunge into darkness; they screamed as overloaded circuits melted, leaving cities as silent, sparking skeletons. The sky, once a predictable canvas of blue and white, became an unpredictable riot of unnatural, shimmering auroras, their colors—violent greens that burned the eyes, electric blues that felt like a shock, unsettling purples that pulsed and shifted like a wounded entity—a perpetual, silent scream against the bruised atmosphere. Tectonic rifts awakened, their groaning protests echoing through the ground, a sound like the planet tearing itself apart. This seismic agony melted ice sheets with terrifying speed and lifted ocean floors with a relentless roar, drowning 80% of land in a matter of years. The Pacific, once a vast, deep chasm, rose as a new continent, its surface now a chaotic mosaic of churning, brackish water and newly exposed, steaming rock, hissing like a wounded beast, while the heavens turned hostile—something ancient on the Moon's far side barred humanity's escape, a silent, impenetrable wall against the stars, an unseen force that whispered stay. Billions perished not in the sudden, searing fire of war, but in the slow, chilling forgetting as the digital echoes of their lives vanished like smoke, and the familiar sounds of civilization—traffic, laughter, music from open windows—faded into the relentless drum of the rain and the hungry hiss of rising tides.