The first sign of trouble was the Staten Island Ferry getting stuck—not on a sandbar, but in a massive, pale-gold floe of fermenting bubbles. By Tuesday, the Atlantic was foaming. By Friday, the "Crust" had formed. A mile-thick layer of aerated, rubbery dough now spanned from Jersey to Portugal.

When the heat subsided, the world was different. Shipping lanes had to be carved out with giant serrated saws. The "Great Atlantic Loaf" became the foundation of a new civilization. We didn't live on islands anymore; we lived on the Toast.

Dr. Aris Thorne had designed it to solve world hunger by creating "ocean bread," a self-rising kelp dough that could grow in the Atlantic. But Aris had been too successful. The yeast didn't just grow; it thrived. Within months, the harbor of New York smelled less like salt and diesel and more like a warm brioche.

Should we delve into the between the "Crust-dwellers" and the mainlanders, or perhaps explore the giant seagulls that evolved to eat the world?