Sunrise Sanctuary is the birthplace of the Atomic Critters.

Tucked between koi ponds, creaking bridges, and fences patched more times than anyone remembers, the sanctuary began as a quiet refuge for misfit animals and curious visitors. Mornings smell like warm hay and wet stone. Afternoons echo with laughter, guitar feedback, and the occasional roar that definitely didn’t used to be there. It’s a place built on care, routine, and the comforting lie that nothing truly strange could happen here.

Renji is the light everyone remembers.

He’s the smiling guide through Sunrise Sanctuary, the voice that welcomes visitors, the hands that offer feed to children and reassurance to nervous parents. Around him, the sanctuary feels safe—patched fences feel intentional, strange noises feel charming, and nothing ever seems quite as fragile as it really is.

Kagen is the shadow that learned how to stand up.

Before anything broke, he swept the paths, fixed the fences, and stayed late after the laughter left. People looked past him. Praise went elsewhere. Resentment settled in quietly, stacking day by day like upswept dust.

Cheeseball is the sound you feel in your ribs before you hear it.

A sharp‑eared fennec fox with a habit of stealing earbuds and vanishing into the corner to listen to metal way too loud. Turn it up. Follow the noise. Meet Cheeseball.

Fin is the quiet weight in the room when something isn’t right.

Small, soft, and usually found pressed against someone who looks like they’re having a worse day than they’ll admit, Fin has always had a talent for showing up when it matters. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t judge. He just stays—breathing slow, eyes steady, anchoring the people around him without ever demanding to be seen.

Coop is love with no volume control.

Before the world changed, Coop could usually be found asleep in a warm pile of humans, convinced that laps were a renewable resource and that attention should be constant, uninterrupted, and earned simply by existing. When he wasn’t napping, he was proudly investigating trash cans, cardboard tubes, and anything that crinkled with promise. Especially things he absolutely was not supposed to have.

The River Otter started out normal—which, for an otter, is already a little concerning.

Before the world cracked open, he spent his days floating lazily on his back, cracking shells with surgical precision, and staring just a beat too long at anything that moved. Visitors thought he was cute. Caretakers thought he was clever. Other animals gave him space without really knowing why.

Slug Cat earned her name by perfected doing nothing.

She was a house cat of impressive mass and unshakable routine. She slept through meals. She ignored toys. She evaluated effort and routinely decided against it. Movement, in her opinion, was a suggestion—not an obligation.