The sky forgets its color. Birds migrate in perfect circles. Phones glitch to the same countdown and the oceans begin to glow like warning flares. The trailer sprints through collapse with surgical calm: a genome vault sealed under polar ice; a city square buried in ash‑snow; a freight elevator dropping into a forest grown inside a stadium.

Sirens harmonize with whale‑song; sonar pings tick like guilty hearts; streetlights blink in Morse that no one taught them. A small team—engineer, medic, linguist, child—chases a signal older than fire, decoding a pattern that feels less like doom and more like instruction.

Set‑pieces sting: bioluminescent tide churning with shapes that aren’t fish, a bridge cracking along a constellation, a drone swarm sculpting an exit sign in the clouds. The question isn’t how we end, but what we become—archive or adaptation. Final image: a door in the desert that opens onto rain.