Town

Location: Sector A-1 // NW
Coordinates: 54°43'20" N, 20°30'45" E
Status: High Altitude
Signal Stable / Clear / Organized
Core: Peace. Control. Brain.

“There is no rush at the summit. Only you, the radio waves, and the feeling that the city is being watched over. If you’re tired—just fix your eyes on the tower lights. They won’t let you down.”

Grim Heights is a northeastern district entirely dominated by the massive rock mountain. It guards the history of the first settlers: deep underground lie abandoned coal mines, whose anthracite once sparked the first lights in this misty land.

In the mid-20th century, a monumental steel tower was erected at the peak—intended to be the region’s main television center and a symbol of progress. Yet time and the digital age have turned it into a rusting monument of a bygone era.

Officially abandoned, the tower has been reclaimed by enthusiasts and mysterious operators as the heart of independent broadcasting. It is from here, on 99.9 P.Rock FM, that the thick, baritone voice of the enigmatic DJ flows.

Locals believe that as long as the tower's signal light burns at the summit, the city knows: someone up there is watching over us.

Location: Sector B-1 // NE
Coordinates: 54°43'45" N, 20°36'10" E
Status: Fractured Data / Critical
Signal: Critical
Core: Anxiety. Hissing. Nerves.

“Nature reclaims its own here with a particular ferocity. Among the swamps and old carousels, it’s easy to hear the whispers of things you tried to forget in Downtown.”

Once the most prestigious address in town, this area featured pristine forests and Victorian estates far from the industrial soot. But the encroaching swamps and the city’s decay changed everything.

Following the death of the last tycoon, his opulent mansion was converted into the city’s Asylum, and a sprawling amusement park rose where gardens once bloomed—now a rusted skeleton of former joy.

The forest has swallowed the estates, leaving only hidden trails, mystical shacks, and the legend of the Bottomless Well.

Locals say it’s better to spend the night in the dangerous alleys of the Skirts than to find yourself here after sunset, when the howls of those locked behind the clinic's rusted bars echo from the thicket.

Location: Sector B-2 // SE

Coordinates: 54°38'15" N, 20°37'05" E

Status: Signal Fading / Borderline

Signal Overloaded
Core: Rage. Howl. Heart.

“If your car dies here —don't panic. Just follow the deafening roar of the rock music  toward the 'Bag of Bones.' They’ll either help you fix the engine or help you forget it ever existed.”

The Southeast is a scorched wasteland, the realm of iron steeds and the "business of bones." The district survives on the transit highway that flows into the city past a lonely gas station and a motel.

This is a industrial cluster for car strippers: a workshop where they can overhaul an engine in a single night, and a massive scrapyard. Here, machines don’t die—they are cannibalized for parts: the best goes to the port for export, while the rest rots under the open sky.

The heart of the district is a biker bar standing literally across the road from the old cemetery. Local grease monkeys and nomads believe in a grim legend: when the music in the bar gets too loud and the guitar overdrive hits its peak, the dead in the graveyard can’t take it.

They say at night, among the rusted chassis and tombstones, you can see the shadows of skeletons searching for their old bikes.

Location: Sector A-2 // SW

Coordinates: 54°39'05" N, 20°29'50" E

Status: Heavy Interference / Hum

Signal Heavy
Core: Strength. Flesh. Power.

“The men in the Gut don't talk—they just show up after the weekend benders and family brawls. It’s a raw, unforgiving world of heavy labor, the only place where they truly belong.”

The Industrial Gut is a black, stinking machine that never sleeps, pumping fuel oil and crude through rusted arterial pipes under the glare of cold floodlights.

There is no room for aesthetics here: the air is thick with acrid smog and the howling of rusted port cranes that loom over the city like ancient colossi. In the roar of the steel mill grinding imported scrap, the nearby greasy plant churns out the region's finest lubricants for export.

In the shadow of this behemoth lie the ruins of the weaver’s factory, where legend says dead looms vibrate in tandem with the industrial presses, weaving shrouds of dust for those trapped in the halls.

No one promised the city’s entrails would be beautiful; there are only oil-stained hands and a deafening hum that drowns out all thought.

Location: Core Sector 00 // Zero Point

Coordinates: 54°41'30" N, 20°33'25" E

Status: Total Convergence

Signal Hezy, Fading
Core: Comfort. Dust. Whispers.

“It’s easy to get lost in Downtown, but even easier to find yourself. Just don’t count your cigarettes and don't look at the clock. In Downtown, time doesn’t exist.”

The city center is a narrow corridor squeezed between the cold waters of Pale Lake, the dense forest thickets, and the stone wall of the mountain.

By day, Downtown suffocates in gray dust and industrial smog blown in from the southwestern factories. By night, it is washed clean by an endless rain that seems to fall forever.

This is a place of honest rest after the shift. In bars smoked out to the ceiling, factory hands wash away the taste of fuel oil with cheap whiskey to the slow, dragging sounds of the blues. People don't come here looking for adventure; they come here looking for oblivion.

For romantic souls, the city offers the promenade. Here, under the distant whisper of the Industrial Gut and the mountain peaks across the Pale Lake, you can finally let go. Just vanish into the night.