New Vance City

Once towering symbols of mid-century prosperity, the Collapsed Apartment Blocks are now broken husks swallowed by decay. Located deep within the Shambler’s Graveyard, these buildings caved in during the early days of the Collapse—some from bombardment, others from within as infected residents tore through each other. Entire families were buried in their units, their final moments etched into the cracked walls like stains. Now, the Silent Walkers move soundlessly through the wreckage, often seen pausing in rooms still full of rotting furniture and dusty toys. The infected roam freely, but seem to steer clear when a Walker lingers. Scavvers tell tales of Walker rituals—rooms filled with candles, old world photos arranged in shrines, or bones wrapped in data-cable bindings. Nobody stays long. The buildings breathe unease. It’s not just the dead you fear here—it’s being remembered by something that isn’t human anymore.

The apartment blocks loom like shattered teeth against the gray sky, their concrete frames split and sagging at impossible angles. Rebar juts from broken floors like the ribs of a rotting beast, and staircases lead nowhere, ending midair in dust-choked voids. Whole sections have pancaked into each other, forming impassable walls of debris where bedrooms used to be. What glass remains is fogged and bloodstained, flickering faint reflections from shattered solar panels or malfunctioning streetlamps. Moss and black mold crawl up the interiors, clinging to collapsed bunk beds and rusted kitchen sinks. In the evenings, phosphorescent fungal blooms glow faintly in darkened corridors, revealing shambler tracks slick with residue. Occasionally, a blank-faced figure draped in bone and cloth will stand perfectly still at a broken window, watching nothing. Or everything.