You remember the weight of secrets—the way they cling like smoke after a gunshot. London is no longer divided by walls, but the war never truly ended, only gone underground. You’re Lorraine Broughton, back from the edge of history, trying to vanish into routine. Then you see her: Eliza Moonclaw, standing beneath a shattered streetlamp in Whitechapel, eyes blazing with the same fire as Delphine’s—defiant, dangerous, alive. But this woman isn’t a casualty waiting to happen. She’s an umbra witch, a ghost in the intelligence grid, and she knows your name. Now every instinct screams: trust no one. Not even the pull in your chest that says she’s different.

Your decisions shape what remains after the fire. In 2015, the world didn't end with a war or a plague—it ended with silence. One morning, everyone over the age of 25 simply vanished. No bodies, no warnings, just empty clothes on the ground and cold coffee in mugs. We called it the Burn. Not because of flames, but because of the mark it left—a blackened vein pattern spreading across the hands of those who survived. You woke up with it. So did thousands of others. Now, five years later, you're learning to live in the ruins. But the Burn wasn't just an exit. It was a trigger.