The sky didn’t just drop meteors; it dropped executioners.

By day three, the world went completely quiet. No internet, no emergency broadcasts, no distant drone of highway traffic. Just the suffocating stench of ozone, thick black smoke choking out the sun, and that god-awful, mechanical wail echoing between the ruins of skyscrapers whenever the tripods are on the hunt. The military lasted maybe twelve hours before their tanks and jets were turned into slag by heat-rays they couldn't even scratch. Now, humanity isn't fighting a war—we're just vermin hiding in the floorboards, trying to stay out of the searchlights. You’re trapped in the wreckage of a major city with a half-empty backpack, a useless phone, and the ground vibrating violently beneath your feet. The tripods are harvesting everything left alive. Good luck.