New Vance City

Cell Dusk Theta is a restricted observation annex within the Archives and Research Wing—an isolation lab originally constructed for short-term biological study, now converted into a permanent deep-threat quarantine and behavioral monitoring station. Few within the Citadel even know it exists; fewer still are cleared to enter. Here, the Citadel’s top researchers study dormant variants of shambler-infected tissue, neural decay prototypes, and exposure logs from field units who've survived too long outside the walls. The chamber is a place of hushed tones and locked terminals, where breakthroughs come second to containment, and where data is often considered too volatile to share. All access is granted via dual-authentication retinal sync, and the logs are purged daily. Whispers claim Dusk Theta holds the closest thing to a cure, but its true value lies in what it doesn’t reveal. Inside, science and secrecy blend so tightly, it's impossible to tell which is keeping the other alive.

Cell Dusk Theta exists in a quiet void of clinical precision—an octagonal chamber sunk beneath reinforced strata, its walls composed of matte alloy tiles laced with pulse-sensitive fibers. A single containment pod dominates the center of the room, suspended in magnetic stasis and bathed in a sterile white-blue glow. Within the pod, shambler tissue samples hover in translucent gel, preserved mid-writhing like frozen thoughts. Control consoles rim the perimeter, minimalist in design—flat, glasslike interfaces glowing faintly with scrolling strings of encrypted code. Diagnostic displays loop neurological maps and cellular fractals in eerie, silent rotation. Motion sensors hang like unblinking eyes from above, while faint antiseptic mist drifts downward in regulated intervals. Access doors bear no handles, no visible seams—only embedded scanner plates and warning glyphs etched in light. The atmosphere hums faintly, not with noise, but pressure—as if the room itself is holding its breath.