You're the last soul holding an outpost in a world that already ended — several times over. The game plays itself (your survivor eats, drinks, fights and works on their own) but the calls are yours: where to send them, what to build, what to risk. Die and the next survivor walks up the south road to the same world — your base, stash and map intact.

Six meters keep you alive. Health, Food, Water, Rest and Warmth — let any hit bottom and your health starts to fall. Thirst kills more survivors than zombies do.

While you watch, nobody eats for you — tap the blinking buttons. When you look away (tab in the background or game closed) survival instinct takes over: your survivor eats, drinks and patches up if the stash has supplies. Your job is to keep food, water and meds stocked.

The world never pauses. Meters drain, crafts finish, the garden grows and raids still come while you're away (a little slower, capped at 14 days). You can die offline if you leave the stash dry.

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gray and even — nothing helps, nothing hurts

catchers run full · the plot drinks deep · the wet seeps into the bones

ash chokes the plots, the lungs, the mood

killing cold · skin won't last bare · roots barely creep · the dead slow down

the tower sees half as far · so does everything else · damp and chill

good light — crops bask, spotters see far, boots move easy

thaw and green — the plot wakes up and the rivers run again

long hot days — water goes fast, but the crops race to ripen

the light shortens and the air turns — bank what you can before the cold

killing cold — the rivers lock, the plot sleeps, the body burns fuel to stay warm

Scrap-steel raised by hand. +20 max integrity per level — new sections go up whole.

Spotters on the ridge. +8 defense per level.

Tarps and gutters. Slow passive runoff — murky, needs boiling.

Broken ground in ash soil. +1 plant bed per level — sow, wait on the weather, harvest.

Clean bench, boiled tools. Resting heals more.

A coughing genset and salvaged work-lights. Burns fuel after dark to push the night back — the wall sees farther, the bench keeps working.

Vise, anvil, reloading press. Each level opens heavier patterns on the bench and shaves a little time off every job.

Someone's standing just past the wire at dusk — hands open, pack heavy. Hard to read what they want.

A scavenger trades a creased map for a hot meal. There's an X over a yard you haven't walked yet.

A traveler sags against the gate, fever-bright and shaking, and begs for medicine.

A trader lets slip there's a sealed lab two ridges over — strange readings, but the salvage runs deep.

A lean dog noses at the wire — ribs showing, tail low. It watches you and doesn't run.

A note weighted under a spent casing: leave brass at the marker by dusk, or they come for the wall.