Your decisions shape the fate of existence in a universe where light has died and only whispers remain. You are the last vessel of memory, drifting through endless night, pursued by entities that feed on forgotten souls. The silence is alive—and it knows your name.

The world is dying—not from war, famine, or plague, but from something far older. It breathes beneath our feet, waking after eons of silence. Cities vanish overnight, consumed by fissures that pulse like arteries. Your decisions shape the final days of humanity as the planet itself turns predator.

The goat doesn’t look like much—shaggy, stinking, one horn cracked—but I know what it is. What it’s done. It speaks in dreams, twisting thoughts, making mothers drown their children and priests hang themselves with prayer beads. And it’s hers. She strokes its matted fur like it’s holy. But I’ve seen the graves. I’ve counted the missing. This isn’t a pet. It’s a curse with hooves. And tonight, I’m the one who has to end it.

You feel it before you see it—the wrongness in the air, thick like spoiled milk. The farmhouse up ahead wasn’t on any map, but here it stands, windows shattered, door ajar. Something called us here. Not choice. Not chance. Something *wanted* us to come. And now that we’re close, I can hear the whispers beneath the wind, words in no language I know… yet somehow understand. This isn’t just a place of death. It’s a place of *design*. And if we don’t leave now, we won’t be leaving at all.