Underburbia

In this world, the air hangs heavy with the scent of neon, thick smog swallowing the skyline into fluorescent Families are fractured things—hollow shells held together by routine. Each morning, weary souls spill into endless lines of battered vehicles, crawling through landscapes scarred by industry. Cracked roads wind through fields of monoliths of hope, the sky forever stained neon. Here, survival flickers only faintly, like a memory too painful to fully recall.