New Vance City

Bendspine Station has no living master. What was once a quiet loop line terminus is now a stinking cathedral of rot. The Gear Rats once tried to hold it—burned barricades and melted turret husks still litter the entry platforms—but the infection outpaced them. Now, Silent Walkers drift through the ruined concourse, watching with patient, bone-glass eyes as Shamblers nest in the maintenance corridors. The station’s deep cisterns provide moisture for the infection to flourish, and black mold blooms across every stairwell. Something has been scratching words into the walls—short phrases in a dead language, repeated over and over. It’s not just a hotspot. It’s a conversion zone. Entry is suicide. But some still come… just to listen.

The entire station is submerged in ankle-deep, septic runoff that pulses with bioluminescent decay. Pale fungal tendrils creep up from the tracks and cling to old signage like veins seeking warmth. Train cars sit derailed and rotting—doors stuck open, filled with nests of bones, teeth, and shredded uniforms. Emergency lights flicker on a ten-second loop, casting red flashes that illuminate silhouettes shambling in stuttered freeze-frame. Massive growths bulge from ceiling tiles, pulsing faintly with what might be breath. The Silent Walkers move like shadows between the grime and steam, trailing threadbare garments soaked in rot. Every surface is either wet, cracked, or crawling.