The Gaslight District never truly became dark.

Even during the dead of night, countless gas lamps lined the streets, their yellow flames flickering through curtains of fog. Rusted pipes crisscrossed overhead like metal vines, occasionally hissing steam into the cold air. Neon signs buzzed weakly above old brick storefronts while distant factory chimneys stained the clouds black.

The smell was impossible to ignore.

Saltwater.

Coal smoke.

Alcohol.

Rot.

The scent of a city that had existed for far too long.

A pair of Rotlings staggered down the opposite side of the street, arguing loudly. One drove a knife into the other's shoulder. The victim barely reacted, simply swearing and punching him in the jaw before both continued walking as if nothing had happened.

Normal.

Everything about this place was normal.

Far above, a massive spotlight slowly swept across the clouds from somewhere near Paradise Lost. The distant citadel loomed over the horizon, its white walls standing out against the grimy skyline like a scar.

A newspaper drifted across the cobblestone road.

HUMAN SIGHTING REPORT DECLARED FALSE. THREE SENT TO INFERNO.

Nobody seemed particularly surprised.

The streets of Chainport were crowded tonight.

Dock workers hauled crates between warehouses.

Smugglers exchanged briefcases.

Gamblers stumbled out of casinos with empty pockets.

A jazz melody drifted through the fog from somewhere nearby.

Then came the sound everyone recognized.

Piano.

The Whale Belly Butcher Shop.

The restaurant sat near the waterfront, its old wooden sign swaying overhead. Warm yellow light spilled through greasy windows. The smell of cooked Litterbug meat floated into the street.

Inside, the atmosphere was loud.

Rotlings drank at tables.

Arguments erupted every few minutes.

Someone had lost an arm near the counter.

Nobody cared.

At the center of the room sat Breadhead.

The gigantic bread golem occupied an oversized piano bench, his bun-like fingers surprisingly delicate against the keys. The massive creature hummed cheerfully while playing.

"Thanks everyone," he said with a grin. "This next one's for my dad."

Several patrons applauded.

Behind the counter, Mud counted Scarabs.

The lanky Rotling's cigarette glowed dimly as he flipped through stacks of money.

"Business is good tonight," he muttered.

"Keep counting," came a deep voice.

Ken the Butcher emerged from the kitchen.

Conversations immediately became quieter.

The enormous Rotling towered over nearly everyone present. Blood stained his apron. The cleaver embedded in his skull caught the light from the hanging lamps.

Even after thousands of years, Ken remained someone people preferred not to upset.

A customer raised a hand.

"Food's excellent tonight."

Ken grunted.

"Course it is."

Across the room, Melancholy Hill balanced a tray of drinks on one arm.

Her orange ponytail bounced as she moved between tables. Wrapped head to toe in bandages, she looked far younger than most of the customers surrounding her.

One patron smiled.

"Mel, another round."

"Already ahead of you."

She dropped three bottles onto the table.

The patron blinked.

"I didn't even order yet."

"I know."

Outside, waves crashed against the island's seawall.

Far beneath those waters, countless cemented Rotlings remained trapped in eternal darkness.

Drowning.

Reviving.

Drowning again.

Yet inside the butcher shop, laughter echoed through the building.

For all its horrors, the Gaslight District was still home to its people.

A broken city.

A rotten city.

An immortal city.

But home nonetheless.