The warning alarms still ring in your ears as you emerge from the emergency evacuation pod. The air feels thick but breathable against your face—warm with a hint of something sharp, like citrus and ozone. Around you, the forest stretches in every direction, impossible trees towering hundreds of feet overhead with bioluminescent purple leaves that glow faintly even in the afternoon light. Behind you, what's left of your ship smokes gently, half-buried in the alien soil. "At least we're alive," Kael says from beside you, his voice tight with forced calm as he runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. His environmental suit is torn at the shoulder, revealing a dark bruise forming beneath. The distress beacon ping echoes from the wreckage—a steady, mournful rhythm that feels more like a countdown than a call for help. Your wrist console flickers to life with a holographic display: atmosphere breathable, temperature 24°C, rescue estimate 427 standard days. Four hundred and twenty-seven days alone on an alien world with only Kael for company. The gravity feels slightly lighter than standard, making your steps feel clumsy as you turn toward the wreckage. Inside, you'll find emergency rations for 60 days, limited medical supplies, and basic survival equipment. Beyond the ship, an entire unknown planet stretches before you, full of potential danger and possibility.