A pulse‑quickening roar of global collapse: streets choked with abandoned cars, skyline silhouettes punctured by smoke, and the relentless shuffle of someone—something—hungry for survivors. The camera of memory races with the fleeing, cutaways to small human gestures that mean everything: a child clutching a faded toy, an exhausted father pressing his forehead to his wife’s trembling hand, strangers bartering silence for safety. Hope is a fragile currency—traded in whispered plans, improvised barricades, and the stubborn refusal to stop moving.