[h3][color=palegreen]|  T H E   G O O D S  |[/color][/h3]
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Feel free to pitch your own ideas. Some of the best stories I've been a part of were collaborative efforts starting from nothing more than genres we like and ideas that interest us. If there aren't any ideas posted that interest you, we can workshop something together.

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There was a time when power meant hope.
That time is dead, and the corpse is smiling.

The Shards gleam under a dying sun, monuments to humanity’s hunger for spectacle. When their powers ignited, they clothed themselves in silver armor and basked in the adoration of a world that forgot how to care. They are walking gods—not for their virtue, but for the spectacle of their violence. Cities rot around them. Entire generations starve so they can wage glittering wars on prime-time television. Every death they cause is wrapped in a bow, sold to the masses, edited to fit the narrative:
Victory. Sacrifice. Glory.

Their lives are gilded cages lined with needles. They sell their souls by the ounce, whore their trauma for attention, drown themselves in chemicals to quiet the screaming in their heads. They are immaculate monsters and when they shatter into porcelain their pieces are packaged and sold.

But somewhere far beneath the thrones of silver and silk, something festers.

The Strains.

The black-marked children of fear—born not from ambition, but from nightmare. When a Strain comes of age, their body betrays them. The stain on their skin spreads like spilled ink, boiling their flesh into armor, warping their faces into something inhuman. Their voices rip from their throats in howls they cannot control. The first transformation is always a massacre. They do not get to choose. They do not get to apologize.

They are hated for what they are. Feared for what they might become. And worst of all, they are immortal—cursed to linger forever in the moment the world decided they were monsters.

They are not criminals.
They are not outlaws.
They are reminders.

Reminders that under all the silver polish and plastic smiles, humanity is one bad day away from tearing itself apart with its own teeth.

There are no laws protecting them.
There are no sanctuaries saving them.
There is only the slow, grinding exile into abandoned districts, dead towns, ruined wastelands.
The Shards rise higher.
The Strains sink deeper.
And the world calls it balance.

But the balance is breaking.

Every cheer for the Shards drives another nail into the coffin. Every scream of a hunted Strain rattles the chains. Every drop of blood spilled on cracked concrete feeds something no one dares name.

The world is not ending with a bang or a whimper.
It is ending with applause.
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