It began without warning. Not with a bang, but with a crack . Across every mirror, every window, every still puddle, a single fissure appeared in the reflection of the sky. Then, the sky itself began to fall—not as fire or rain, but as shards. Glass-like, silent, and cold, each piece that touched the earth erased sound in a three-meter radius.

Isla, the Mender, tries to fuse the largest shard—a piece the size of a cathedral door that contains the last sound of the ocean. It fights her, whispering a thousand drowned voices. Rumi, the Echo, paints a wave to help, but collapses, her hair turning white at the temples. Dante, the Unraveler, screams that they should just destroy it all and start over. Kaelen holds them together by sheer force of exhausted will.

AND THE HOLLOW, WHO BECOMES THE SKY.

Rumi has never spoken a word aloud, communicating only through ink drawings that seem to move. In her Tokyo apartment, her script appears as a single, complex kanji that shifts between WITNESS and VOICE . When the Sky Fall hits, she discovers she can "paint" sound—by drawing a violin, she can make a silent zone hum; by drawing a scream, she can shatter nearby shards. But each drawing drains her life force, aging her hours in minutes. She is terrified of becoming silent forever.