Humanity was not yet humanity. We were fragile primates, barely out of the caves.

Then the gods descended. We called them Anunnaki. They took our blood, rewrote our flesh, and forged a new species: not free—but fit to toil.

In the dust of the plains they raised immense mines. In the dark, our hands bled on stone. Their faces were metal. Their eyes knew no mercy. To them, we were tools.

Yet even underground, a spark survived. The first ember of refusal.

The first human story was not a hymn—it was a chain breaking in the dark.