New Vance City

Once an interchange between three major lines, Harrow Mile Junction is now a dead zone. A cave-in during the first month of collapse ruptured the eastern service tunnel, spilling hundreds of civilians into the lines with no way back up. Now, the station is thick with infected. Tunnel scanners show constant movement—slow, clustered, uncoordinated. Surveillance drones go dark here. Patrols are instructed to bypass entirely or seal nearby access. The structure remains largely intact, though ceiling integrity is compromised in multiple spots. Some claim Silent Walkers can be seen at the far mezzanine entrance, watching—unmoving—for hours at a time.

Harrow Mile’s platforms are cracked and buckled from structural stress, with chunks of tile and concrete split like tectonic plates. Long-abandoned luggage and personal effects litter the concourse—shoes, bags, children’s toys—half-submerged in runoff sludge. The central corridor’s ceiling sags visibly, with rusted rebar jutting downward like teeth. Bioluminescent mold has overtaken the platform walls, glowing faintly in teal and sick green. Dozens of shamblers roam here in near-silence, their footfalls sloshing in ankle-deep wastewater. A few screens flicker with frozen emergency alerts. Something deeper hums beyond the station, like machinery trying to start—but never quite catching.