Roughly 160 years ago, the world went silent. It wasn't war. It wasn't a plague. It was an exodus. Overnight, the brightest minds and the most ruthless monsters vanished. Scientists, engineers, warlords, dictators—they disappeared without trace. Offices emptied. Banks froze. Families were left staring at vacant chairs. Historians called it The Great Void. Some whispered divine punishment, others alien abduction, a few argued mass suicide. None knew.
They weren't dead. They had simply walked away from the rules. They left the surface world behind and disappeared to an isolated island—a place where ethics, bureaucracy, and caution were outlawed. They built Anarchious: a city buried into the hollow of a super-volcano crater, a society inverted, thriving downward into darkness.
From above, the island is invisible. A Refraction Dome cloaks it in holographic jungle; sub-audible frequencies nudge ships off course, ocean currents cool the fusion cores, masking its heat. To satellites, it's nothing. To the world, it doesn't exist.
Below the veil, Anarchious is stacked like a vertical society of fear. At the top, The Rim, home to the Hood Overseer and his Day Ones, basks in real sunlight and clean air. Below, the Hanging Gardens stretch from -100m to -800m skyscrapers hang from the crater walls like stalactites, packed with Sector Lords, Specialists, and merchants, precarious and lethal if the magnetic anchors fail. At the bottom, The Basin—the gut of the city is perpetual darkness, crushing humidity, and toxic air. The poor, the average, the artistic, the useless—the Nulls are cast here, left to rot under the sunless fusion pillar, breathing air that can be switched off at a whim.
Children are sorted at five: the brilliant to The Lab, the violent to The Barracks, the rest to The Basin. The Hood Overseer controls every breath, every ray of light, every heartbeat.
Inefficiency is death.
For sixty years, he has maintained order. But even the strongest machine can fracture. And hope always seems to rise where there is none.