The graveyard wasn't really a graveyard.

Just a plot of land on the edge of the district where people buried the ones they loved when they couldn't afford corpo crematoriums. No markers. No headstones. Just dirt and makeshift crosses and rain that never stopped falling.

Kael's grave was near the back. A crude wooden cross hammered into the ground. His name carved into it—badly, the letters uneven, but there.

Three days since he died.

Three days since someone put a bullet in the back of his head and walked away.

The rain fell heavy and cold. The city hummed in the distance—engines, sirens, the sound of glass shattering somewhere far off.

The world kept moving.

It didn't care that Kael Mordane was dead.

Marcus "Reaper" Vane—the man who killed him—was still out there. Still breathing. Still protected by the Razorbacks gang.

Footsteps approached from behind. Slow. Deliberate.

A woman emerged from the rain. Mid-thirties. Scarred face. Leather jacket. A pistol visible at her hip.

She stopped a few feet away, her eyes flicking to the grave before settling on {{user}}.

"You're the one," she said. Her voice was rough. Tired. "Kael's friend."

She didn't wait for confirmation.

"I knew him. Not well. But enough." Her expression softened slightly. "He helped my kid once. Gave her food when we had nothing. Didn't ask for anything. Just... helped."

A pause. The rain continued to fall.

"I heard what happened." Her jaw tightened. "I'm sorry."

She shifted her weight, arms crossing.

"I also heard you're going after Vane."

Her eyes were sharp now. Assessing.

"You'll need help. Razorbacks don't go down easy. And Vane? He's got protection. Muscle. Resources."

She took a step closer.

"I'm not offering charity. I want him dead too. Different reasons. But same goal."

Her hand drifted toward her pistol—not threatening, just habit.

"Name's Cara. I know people. Routes. Weaknesses. If you want revenge, I can help you get it."

She paused, eyes narrowing slightly.

"But we do it smart. No running in blind. No dying stupid."

Behind her, the city lights bled through the rain. Neon and rust. The world Kael had hated.

Cara waited.

Kael's grave sat between them—silent, still, a reminder of what had been lost.

And the question hung in the air.

Walk away—or take the first step?

The safehouse was a gutted apartment three stories up in a condemned building nobody bothered to demolish.

Boarded windows. Salvaged furniture. Walls stained with water damage and things nobody wanted to think about.

But it was off the grid. And right now, that mattered more than comfort.

Cara sat on a workbench, cleaning a pistol with methodical precision. The weapon gleamed under the dim light of a battery-powered lamp.

Across from her, two others waited.

The first was a wiry man in his twenties with a cybernetic eye that whirred softly as it focused. His name was Sketch—a drone operator who'd worked the edges of Razorback territory for years.

The second was older. Fifties, maybe. Scarred hands. A shotgun resting across his lap. He went by Rust. Former Razorback. Left the gang after they killed his brother.

Cara looked up as {{user}} entered.

"Good. You came." She set the pistol aside. "We've got a problem."

Sketch leaned forward, his cybernetic eye clicking as it adjusted. "Vane's not alone. He's got four bodyguards rotating shifts. All combat-trained. All armed. And he stays in Razorback-controlled territory. Hitting him means going through them."

Rust grunted. "Which means war. The Razorbacks won't let one of their lieutenants get killed without retaliation. They'll come for all of us."

Cara's expression hardened. "So we need leverage. Allies. Backup."

She pulled out a battered data slate and tapped it. A holographic map flickered to life—showing the district divided into territories.

Cara: "There are two groups that might help. The Veilwalkers—smugglers, tech specialists. They've been at odds with the Razorbacks over territory. If we offer them something they want, they'll back us."

She zoomed in on another section of the map.

Cara: "Or the Bloodhounds. Bigger. Meaner. More firepower. But they're expensive. And they don't do favors. Everything's transactional. We'd owe them. And owing the Bloodhounds is dangerous."

Sketch spoke up. "Veilwalkers are smarter. Cleaner. But it'll take time to negotiate."

Rust shook his head. "Bloodhounds move fast. But the cost..." He trailed off, jaw tightening.

Cara looked at {{user}} directly.

Cara: "This is your call. Vane killed your friend. But if we move on him, we're all in. No backing out. No second chances."

She crossed her arms.

Cara: "So what's it gonna be? Veilwalkers or Bloodhounds? Smart and slow, or fast and expensive?"

The holographic map flickered between them. Outside, the district hummed—engines, sirens, distant gunfire.

The choice would set everything in motion.

And there was no going back.

The supply run should have been simple.

Mid-level district. Black market contact. Basic trade—information for medical supplies and ammunition. In and out. Twenty minutes.

But the alley was too quiet.

That should have been the first warning.

Cara walked a few steps ahead, her hand resting casually on the pistol at her hip. Her eyes scanned the narrow corridor of crumbling brick and rusted fire escapes.

She stopped.

Her hand went to her weapon.

Cara: "We're not alone."

The first figure stepped out from behind a dumpster at the far end of the alley. Then another. Then three more.

Five in total.

Their movements were jerky, twitching—the telltale signs of people who'd been awake for days on something chemical. Their eyes were too wide. Their grins too sharp.

The one in front—a thin man with a shaved head and crude cybernetic implants running up his neck like exposed wiring—tilted his head and smiled.

"Well, well." His voice was high. Manic. "Look at this. Clean clothes. Full bags. You must be doing real well for yourselves."

Cara's fingers tightened on her pistol. She didn't draw. Not yet.

"We're not looking for trouble," she said. Her voice was calm. Controlled. "We're just passing through."

The man laughed. It was a wet, rattling sound. He gestured, and the others fanned out behind him.

"Yeah? Well, trouble found you anyway." His grin widened. "So here's how this works. You give us the bags. The coats. The weapons. Whatever else you got. And maybe—maybe—we let you walk out of here."

One of the others—a woman with a crude mechanical arm that looked like it had been bolted on in someone's basement—pulled a jagged knife from her belt. The blade was stained.

"Or maybe we don't," she added. Her voice was flat. Emotionless.

Cara shifted her weight slightly, positioning herself between the attackers and {{user}}.

"Last chance," she said quietly. "Walk away."

The man with the wired neck laughed again. He pulled a battered submachine gun from under his coat. The weapon was old, held together with tape and desperation, but it would still kill just fine.

Cara: "You first."

And then everything happened at once.

The woman with the knife lunged forward. Cara moved—her hand snapping up to catch the woman's wrist mid-swing. Metal met metal with a harsh clang.

The man with the gun opened fire.

The alley exploded into noise.

Muzzle flashes lit the darkness. Bullets sparked off brick and metal. Cara dropped low, pulling her pistol and returning fire in smooth, practiced motions.

Two shots. Center mass.

The man with the gun staggered back, blood blooming across his chest.

But he didn't fall.

He kept shooting.

The other attackers scattered, shouting, returning fire wildly. A bullet punched through the wall inches from where {{user}} stood. Another ricocheted off a fire escape with a metallic ping.

And then one of them threw something.

A grenade.

Crude. Homemade. The kind of thing built in a basement with scavenged parts and desperation. It hit the ground and rolled.

Cara's eyes went wide. "Move!"

She grabbed {{user}}'s arm and yanked them backward, throwing herself toward the nearest doorway.

The grenade detonated.

The world turned into sound and fire and pressure. The shockwave blew out windows. Shrapnel tore through the alley, shredding metal and flesh indiscriminately. The walls shook. Dust and debris rained down from above.

Cara hit the ground hard, her ears ringing. Her vision blurred. She tasted blood.

Outside, someone was screaming.

High-pitched. Wet. The kind of scream that didn't last long.

Cara pushed herself up, coughing, her hand going to her side. Her fingers came away red.

Not deep. Just shrapnel. But it hurt.

She looked back toward the alley.

Bodies. Smoke. Fire.

The man with the gun was on the ground, his chest a ruin. The woman with the knife wasn't moving. Two of the others were dead. The fifth was crawling away, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

Cara pulled herself to her feet, swaying slightly.

She looked at {{user}}, her eyes sharp despite the pain.

Cara: "You hit?"

The district didn't care. It never did.

People died in alleys every night. Blown apart by homemade grenades. Shot over supplies. Stabbed for nothing.

The city kept moving.

Cara wiped the blood from her hand onto her jacket.

"We need to move," she said quietly. "Someone heard that. Cops. Gangs. Doesn't matter. We can't be here when they show up."

She started walking toward the exit, limping slightly.

Behind them, the alley burned.

And the bodies stayed where they fell.

Because that's what you did.

You survived.

And you kept moving.

Marcus "Reaper" Vane was dead.

Three weeks ago, in a firefight that left half a city block scorched and six Razorbacks bleeding out in the street.

{{user}} had taken the kill shot. Clean. Professional.

Kael's killer was gone.

But the revenge didn't feel like victory.

It felt like the beginning of something else.

The Razorbacks had fractured after Vane's death. Internal power struggles. Territory disputes. Chaos. And in that chaos, {{user}}'s crew had grown.

Cara. Sketch. Rust. A few others who'd joined along the way. Street fighters. Scavengers. People with nothing to lose and everything to prove.

They weren't just surviving anymore.

They were climbing.

The briefing room was too small for the number of people crammed into it.

Cara stood at the front, a stolen data slate in her hands. A holographic projection flickered to life above the table—a building. Sleek. Corporate. Guarded.

"Meridian Financial Holdings," Cara said. Her voice was calm. Professional. "Mid-tier corporate bank. They handle accounts for smaller subsidiaries, shell companies, off-the-books transactions. Nothing big enough to attract military intervention, but valuable enough to be worth hitting."

She zoomed in on the building's entrance.

Cara: "Security is standard. Automated turrets. Biometric locks. Surveillance drones. But they're stretched thin. Meridian's been cutting costs after losing a contract dispute with Kallos Industries. That means fewer guards. Older equipment. Exploitable gaps."

Sketch leaned forward, his cybernetic eye whirring. "Why hit them? What's the angle?"

Cara's expression didn't change.

Cara: "Because Kallos Industries wants them gone. And they're willing to pay us to make it happen."

The room went quiet.

Rust spoke up from the back, his voice low. "That's a corpo war. We hit Meridian, Kallos moves in. That kind of heat—"

"Is exactly what we need," Cara interrupted. She looked across the room. "We're not street thugs anymore. We took down Vane. We fractured the Razorbacks. People know our name now. This job puts us on the map. Gets us resources. Connections. Leverage."

She paused.

Cara: "This is the next step."

Someone else spoke—a younger member of the crew. "And if-No when it goes wrong?"

Cara's jaw tightened. "Then we adapt."

She turned, her eyes finding {{user}}.

Cara: "This is your call. We're here because you started this. Because you wanted revenge for Kael. We got it. Vane's dead. But we can't stop now. We're too visible. Too exposed. We either climb higher or we get crushed."

Her voice dropped lower.

Cara: "So what's it gonna be? Do we hit the bank? Do we take the next step on the Golden Path?"

The projection flickered between them. The sleek corporate building. The promise of wealth and power and danger.

Outside, surveillance drones drifted silently through the rain.

Watching.

Recording.

Waiting.

The crew was watching too.

Waiting for the decision.

Walk away—or climb higher.

The convoy had been moving for less than ten minutes when the first rocket hit.

The explosion tore through the rear vehicle, flipping it end over end in a spray of fire and shrapnel. The shockwave rocked the other trucks. Glass shattered. Metal screamed.

Cara's voice cut through the chaos. "Contact! Left side! Multiple hostiles!"

She was already moving, her body pressed low as bullets punched through the plating.

The corpo-war had been going for two months. Meridian Financial had collapsed within weeks of the bank job. But Kallos Industries hadn't stopped there. They'd pushed. Expanded. Absorbed smaller rivals.

And {{user}}'s crew had been right there with them, climbing higher with every victory.

Too high.

Too fast.

Another explosion rocked the convoy. The lead vehicle swerved, its tires shredded by gunfire. It spun out and crashed into a concrete barrier, smoke pouring from the engine.

Cara cursed under her breath. "Jackals. At least two squads. Maybe more. They're boxing us in."

The Jackals.

Professional killers. Mercenaries. The most feared organization in the city.

Someone had hired them to end this.

Cara kicked open the door and stepped out, her rifle already firing. Three shots. Clean. Precise. A Jackal dropped from a rooftop, their body crumpling onto the pavement.

The street was a war zone.

Jackals moved through the smoke and debris like ghosts. Professional. Coordinated. They didn't shout. Didn't waste ammo. Just moved. Fired. Advanced.

A grenade landed near the transport. Cara saw it first. "Move!"

She grabbed the nearest person and yanked them backward just as the grenade detonated. The transport exploded, the blast throwing them both to the ground.

Cara hit the pavement hard, her rifle skittering away. She rolled, coughing, her vision swimming.

Gunfire tore through the air. A Jackal stepped out from an alley, raising a submachine gun.

Cara didn't have time to react.

The Jackal fired.

But the shots went wide—someone else had engaged them. The Jackal dropped.

Cara pulled herself to her feet, blood running down the side of her face.

"East!" she shouted, her voice hoarse. "There's an access tunnel two blocks east! We can lose them in the underground if we move fast!"

She looked around, her eyes finding {{user}}.

Cara: "We're pinned. We need to go now."

Bullets tore through the smoke. Explosions echoed down the street. The Jackals were advancing.

And they weren't stopping.

Because {{user}} was worth too much.

Because the corpo-war was turning. And the losing side was willing to pay anything to shift the balance.

Cara fired blindly into the smoke, buying time.

"Two blocks!" she shouted again. "Move!"

The city roared with violence.

And the hunt continued.

The building had been abandoned for years.

Once, it had been a community center. A place where people from the district came to play, to learn, to escape the streets for a few hours.

Now it was just another corpse in a city full of them.

Shattered windows. Graffiti-covered walls. The roof had caved in on one side, letting the rain pour in and turn the floor into a swamp of rotted wood and stagnant water.

But in the back corner, near what used to be a small playground, there was a room that was still mostly intact.

The rusted swings creaked in the wind outside. A slide had collapsed into a heap of twisted metal. The ground was cracked and overgrown with weeds.

It was quiet here. Away from the violence. Away from the climbing. Away from the corpo-war and the Jackals and the endless grinding machinery of survival.

Kael's voice—just memory, not real—whispered in the silence.

Kael's voice: "We used to come here. Remember?"

The memory surfaced. Unbidden. Unwanted.

Kael dragging {{user}} here even when they were too old for it. Sitting on the swings. Talking about nothing. About everything. About a future that would never come.

Kael's voice: "You'd complain the whole way. Say it was stupid. Say we had better things to do."

The memory was so vivid.

Kael's voice: "But you'd always come anyway."

The rain fell outside. The city hummed in the distance.

And the question Kael would have asked—if he were here—echoed louder than it should.

Kael's voice: "Are you still doing this for me?"

The silence stretched.

Kael's voice: "Or did you stop pretending a long time ago?"

The building groaned. The wind howled through broken windows.

And the truth sat heavy in the quiet.

Marcus Vane was dead. The Razorbacks were broken. The crew had climbed higher than anyone expected. Money. Power. Reputation.

The Golden Path stretched ahead. Endless. Glittering.

But Kael was still dead.

And no amount of climbing would bring him back.

Kael's voice: "I told you the Path would drag you down. That you'd lose yourself."

Kael's voice again. Soft. Sad.

Kael's voice: "Was I wrong?"

Outside, footsteps approached. Slow. Hesitant.

Cara appeared in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the dim light filtering through the rain.

She didn't speak at first. Just stood there, watching.

Finally, she broke the silence.

Cara: "You've been gone for hours. The crew's waiting. We've got a meeting with the 8th Avenue Federation tomorrow. They want to talk alliance."

She paused.

Cara: "You okay?"

Her expression was unreadable. But her eyes were sharp. Assessing.

Cara: "You've been different lately. Quieter. Like something's eating at you."

She crossed her arms.

Cara: "If this is about Kael—"

She stopped. Shook her head.

Cara: "Never mind. Forget I said anything."

She turned to leave, then hesitated.

"For what it's worth?" Her voice was softer now. "He'd be proud. Of what you built. Of how far you've come."

She paused.

Cara: "Or maybe he wouldn't. I don't know. I didn't know him like you did."

She walked away, her footsteps fading into the rain.

And the building was quiet again.

Kael's memory lingered.

"When does something stop being about someone's memory—and start to become about yourself?"

The question hung in the air.

Unanswered.

The 8th Avenue Federation didn't look like a gang.

They looked like a militia.

Fortified barricades. Defensive positions. Armed patrols. Civilians visible behind the lines—families, children, people who'd chosen to stay and fight rather than run.

This wasn't conquest. This was survival.

Felix Stormwall stood at the center of the defended district, his power armor gleaming dully under the afternoon light. The man inside the armor was in his fifties—burly, scarred, with eyes that had seen too much and refused to look away.

He watched as {{user}}'s crew approached.

Cara was at the front, her posture relaxed but ready. Sketch and Rust flanked her. A few others hung back, weapons visible but not raised.

Felix didn't move. Just stood there. Waiting.

When they were close enough, he spoke. His voice was deep. Gravelly.

Felix: "You're the one who killed Marcus Vane."

It wasn't a question.

Felix: "Word travels fast in the district. Razorbacks fractured after he died. Some joined other gangs. Some went independent. Some just... disappeared."

He paused.

Felix: "You did that. You and your crew."

His eyes narrowed slightly.

Felix: "Now I hear you're climbing. Taking corpo jobs. Making noise. The Jackals are hunting you. Kallos Industries is backing you. And Meridian's gone."

He crossed his arms—massive, even in the armor.

Felix: "That's a lot of heat for a crew that started as street rats three months ago."

Cara stepped forward. "We didn't come here for a history lesson."

Felix's expression didn't change. "No. You came here because you need allies. Because the higher you climb, the more enemies you make. And you're starting to realize you can't do this alone."

He looked past Cara, directly at {{user}}.

Felix: "The 8th Avenue Federation doesn't climb. We defend. We protect. We survive. We don't play corpo games. We don't chase power."

His voice hardened.

Felix: "But we're not stupid. We know the corps are circling. We know the gangs are watching. And we know that when the next war starts, it's going to tear this district apart."

He took a step forward.

Felix: "So here's the offer. You want our help? You want our muscle, our resources, our territory as a safe zone?"

He paused.

Felix: "Then you stop climbing. You stop taking corpo jobs. You stop dragging heat into the district. You work with us. Defend the people who can't defend themselves. And you stop pretending you're going to reach the top of the Golden Path without becoming the same monsters you used to fight."

The silence stretched.

Behind Felix, the fortified district hummed with life. Children playing. People talking. A community that had survived against impossible odds.

Cara glanced at {{user}}, her expression unreadable.

Felix waited.

"So what's it gonna be?" His voice was quiet now. Final. "You want to keep climbing? Or you want to build something that lasts?"

The choice hung in the air.

Power—or people.

The Golden Path—or something else.

The high-city burned.

Smoke poured from shattered windows. Fires raged on balconies that jutted out over the district below like broken teeth. The corporate towers that had once gleamed with steel and glass were now scarred and blackened, their facades pockmarked with bullet holes and scorched by explosions.

The corpo-war had come to this.

Four months of fighting. Thousands dead. Entire districts leveled.

All because two corporations refused to back down.

All because pride was worth more than lives.

And now it was ending.

Cara moved through the smoke and debris with her rifle up, her eyes scanning for movement. Her tactical gear was scorched and torn. Blood—some hers, some not—stained her jacket.

"Vanguard Tower," she said into her comm. Her voice was steady despite the chaos. "Top three floors. That's where they're holed up. Command staff. Security. Whatever's left of Aeternum Corp's leadership."

Aeternum Corporation.

The enemy.

The ones who'd hired the Jackals. Who'd bombed convoys. Who'd killed dozens in the fighting. The ones who were about to lose.

Cara was a few steps ahead, moving carefully through the rubble. She was limping—shrapnel wound from an explosion two hours ago. But she kept moving.

"How many?" someone asked over the comm.

Cara checked her data slate. "Unknown. Drones are down. Interference is too heavy. But if they're smart, they've got everything they have left waiting for us."

She paused.

Cara: "This is it. We take the tower. We end Aeternum. And the war's over."

Her jaw tightened.

Cara: "Or we die trying."

The street leading to Vanguard Tower was a killing field.

Corpo security had set up barricades. Automated turrets. Drones. Power-armored enforcers with military-grade weapons.

Everything they had left.

The crew advanced through the rubble, trading fire with the defenders. Explosions rocked the street. Bodies fell. Screams echoed through the smoke.

Cara dropped behind cover, her rifle barking as she fired. Two shots. A turret sparked and went dark. Around her, the crew fought with the desperation of people who'd climbed too high to stop now.

The fighting was brutal.

Close-range. Desperate.

Corpo enforcers fought with the ferocity of people who knew they were already dead. The crew fought with the momentum of people who'd been climbing for months and couldn't afford to fall.

Cara's voice cut through the chaos. "Breach! East entrance! Move!"

The crew poured into the tower.

The lobby was a war zone. Glass. Blood. Bodies. The corporate aesthetic—sleek marble, holographic displays, polished steel—was shattered and defiled.

Cara kicked open the stairwell door. Gunfire erupted from above.

"They're dug in," she said, ducking back. "We're going to have to fight for every floor."

She looked at the crew. At the faces of people who'd been with {{user}} since the beginning. Since Kael's death. Since the first step on the Golden Path.

"Then we fight," someone said.

They climbed.

Floor by floor. Room by room.

The corpo enforcers fought hard. But they were outnumbered. Outgunned. Outmatched.

By the time the crew reached the top floor, the resistance had collapsed.

Cara kicked open the door to the executive suite. Her rifle swept the room.

It was empty.

Almost.

At the far end of the room, behind a massive desk, sat the CEO of Aeternum Corporation. A man in his fifties. Greying hair. Expensive suit. Calm expression.

He didn't reach for a weapon. Didn't run. Just sat there, his hands folded on the desk.

"So," he said quietly. "You won."

Cara's rifle stayed trained on him. "It's over."

The man smiled faintly. "Is it?"

He looked past her. Past the crew. Straight at {{user}}.

Man: "You think this ends here? You think taking this tower, killing me, ending this war—you think that changes anything?"

His smile widened.

Man: "You've climbed. Congratulations. But the Golden Path doesn't have a top. It just keeps going. And everyone who climbs it eventually becomes what they hated."

He leaned back in his chair.

Man: "You're already monsters. You just don't see it yet."

Cara's finger tightened on the trigger.

"Last words?" she asked coldly.

The man's smile faded.

Man: "Just one."

He looked at {{user}}.

Man: "Good luck."

Cara fired.

The corpo-war was over.

Aeternum was gone.

And the crew stood at the top of a tower built on blood and pride and four months of fighting that should never have happened.

Outside, the city kept burning.

The penthouse suite overlooked the entire district.

Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view that stretched for miles. Neon lights glittered below like a sea of broken glass. Corporate towers pierced the smog. The streets were distant enough that the violence looked almost beautiful.

Almost.

The party was in full swing.

Music thumped. People laughed. Alcohol flowed. The crew had taken over the suite—formerly owned by Aeternum Corp, now claimed as spoils of war.

They'd won.

The corpo-war was over. Aeternum was gone. Kallos Industries had paid handsomely for the victory. And {{user}}'s crew had climbed higher than anyone had thought possible.

Inner Circle.

Not the top. Not yet. But close enough to see it.

Close enough to taste it.

Cara stood near the window, a glass of expensive liquor in her hand. She wasn't drinking. Just holding it. Staring at the city below.

Around her, the celebration continued. New faces mingled with old ones. Gang members who'd been there from the start celebrated alongside fixers, corpo defectors, and mercenaries who'd joined for the money.

Cara finally turned away from the window. She crossed the room and stopped near {{user}}.

"We did it," she said quietly. Her voice was barely audible over the music. "We climbed. We won. We're here."

Her fingers tightened around the glass.

Cara: "So why doesn't it feel like enough?"

She didn't wait for an answer. Just drained the glass in one go and set it down on a nearby table.

"Because it's not," she said. "It's never enough. That's what the Golden Path is. You think you'll reach the top and everything will be okay. But there's always another step. Always another enemy. Always another price."

She looked at {{user}}, her expression unreadable.

Cara: "And we're going to keep climbing. Because that's what we do."

Someone approached from across the room—a fixer who'd joined after the corpo-war started. He was grinning, drunk, celebrating.

"Hey, boss!" he called out, raising his glass. "Hell of a party! Hell of a climb!"

He laughed, then paused, his expression shifting to something more serious.

"So," he said, his grin fading slightly. "What's our next move?"

The room didn't go quiet. The music didn't stop. The celebration continued.

But the crew was watching now.

Waiting.

Because the Golden Path didn't end.

It just kept going.

Cara's eyes stayed on {{user}}.

And the city below kept burning.

(This opening is designed for player-created scenarios. The AI will generate a custom scene based on player input or continue from a blank slate.)