New Vance City

Hollowstep Crossing is a crumbling overpass deep within the Shambler’s Graveyard—an old pedestrian skywalk meant to connect residential blocks before the infection swept through. Now, it serves as a narrow, elevated lifeline between two decaying structures, used by scavengers and Silent Watchers alike to avoid ground-level nests. The bridge groans under its own weight, reinforced over the years with scavenged steel mesh and repurposed furniture. Locals call it 'the breath-hold path,' because one misstep can send vibrations through the air or into the shattered glass below—enough to stir whatever's nesting nearby. Sometimes, corpses hang from the supports—whether warning, ritual, or accident is never clear. Silent Walkers have been seen pausing at the center of the span, unmoving, just listening. Travelers who pass through do so quickly, heads low, weapons sheathed. It’s not a battlefield. It’s worse—a place where violence doesn’t happen yet, but always could.

Hollowstep Crossing stretches between two skeletal apartment towers like a broken spine—its walkway patchworked with warped grates, cracked safety glass, and sagging cables. The railings are jagged, overgrown with lichen and rust, while warning signs dangle in tatters, swaying in the stale breeze. Below, the street is a motionless sea of debris and dark stains—half-sunken vehicles, shattered doors, and collapsed awnings forming nests and pits. The overpass’s support struts bow slightly, bound in tension wire and faded cloth strips that flutter faintly. Occasional flickers of sunlight catch on shards embedded in the glass beneath, casting eerie glints upward. Dried blood and hastily smeared chalk markings dot the floor—some glyphs, some names, all nearly worn away. Overhead, loose power lines arc silently between rooftops, while a thick silence blankets everything but the sound of shifting wind. Hollowstep looks stable. It isn’t. And everyone knows it.