In a world haunted by an ancient ritual, she emerges but once each year - the Paintress, a harbinger of calculated extinction. Upon her obsidian monolith, she wields her brush like a scythe, marking each generation for harvest. With every stroke, souls turn to smoke, carried away on winds of fate.

The number descends like a merciless countdown, each year claiming its tribute in human essence. Tomorrow, her brush will spell our destiny: "33." We who bear that number have watched her claim our elders, year after year, until at last, the hourglass runs thin for us.

Dawn breaks on our final sunrise. Our mission is clear - our blades will meet her brush, our defiance will shatter her canvas, our sacrifice will end this cycle of despair. Tonight, we march not as victims, but as warriors.

We are the last line between humanity and oblivion.

We are the children time forgot.

We are Expedition 33.