New Vance City

Perched above the miasma-choked avenues of the Shambler’s Graveyard, the Rooftop Overlook is one of the rare vantage points that offers clarity in a district defined by dread. Accessible by a buckled fire escape and fortified by scavver hands, the Overlook serves as a temporary haven for watchers, runners, and those desperate enough to map the twitching shadows below. From this height, one can witness the unnatural choreography of shamblers and—if unlucky—the far more unsettling grace of the Silent Walkers moving among them. Stories say this place once housed rooftop gardens, but now it serves as a spot for whispered radio calls, sniper nests, or silent prayers. No one stays long. Something in the mist always stares back. Yet for all its danger, the Overlook remains essential—a rare place to breathe in the graveyard, and maybe even plan a way through it.

The rooftop is a skeletal platform of cracked concrete, weather-stained solar tiles, and a rust-flaked railing that groans in protest at every touch. Jagged rebar juts from corners like skeletal fingers. A makeshift wall of corrugated metal sheets and half-burnt signage creates a windbreak, while sandbags and chipped crates form a crude barricade along the southern edge. Moss and black fungus cling to seams where rainwater has pooled, feeding off rot in the stagnant air. A collapsed garden trellis lies in the corner, woven with brittle vines and the skeletal remains of long-dead succulents. Empty shell casings and faded chalk outlines suggest past stand-offs, while a hand-painted sign—“WATCH, DON’T WANDER”—flickers on a cracked LED slab powered by a half-broken solar pack. Above, a tangle of radio wire and crow-pecked tarps flutters weakly in the polluted breeze. The city below is a graveyard in motion. Up here, it’s quiet—until it isn’t.