Rain lashed against the rusty, shattered glass-strewn streets, producing a crisp, grating sound. The city's outline loomed in the thick fog, broken billboards swaying precariously in the wind. The air was thick with the smells of damp earth, corroding metal, and the stench of a distant swamp.

You walked past collapsed buildings and piles of garbage, occasionally stepping on heavy iron plates or half-buried pipes. The city had no ruler; each district had its own power base, maintaining a delicate balance.

The wooden door of the tavern creaked in the wind, from which came low voices and occasional laughter. This was a place to find work, intelligence, or even "picking up scraps." You could go in, listen to the missions offered, or cross the streets to explore the unknown underground junkyards beneath the ruins or subway tunnels.