Somewhere Industrial — The Forbidden Gallery
After crawling through the remains of the last shattered factory, we didn’t stop. We never do. There’s always another silhouette on the horizon. Another forgotten beast waiting to be found.
The road pulled us straight into the industrial gut of the city. Warehouses. Smoke. That heavy silence that only exists where work once screamed.
And then it stood there. A seven, maybe eight-story monolith. Steel bones. Brick skin. Windows dark like dead eyes watching us approach.
At first glance, there was no way in. But Fragmenta doesn’t quit. We circled the building, slipping through a narrow alley carved by decay, until we found her open wound.
Not a door. Not a welcome. Just a broken window. The kind that mocks your clothes, your dignity, your skin.
And the damn thing slammed shut behind us.
As if the building itself didn’t want us to leave.
Inside, we landed straight into a collapsed office. Mountains of paper rotting like autumn leaves. Names, numbers, lives — all soaked and dissolving into time.
We crossed that space carefully. Hearts quiet. Breaths thin. And then suddenly, we stepped into something else entirely.
A forbidden art gallery.
Every floor felt like an exhibit. Massive concrete pylons framed the space. Trains once rolled straight inside through doors now frozen in rust.
Empty rooms. Yet haunted. Echoes of movement. Light. Noise that never fully left.
And then we climbed. Step after step. Sweat pouring. Air thick like molasses.
The concrete stairwell turned into a death-level straight out of Super Mario. Forty degrees inside. No breeze. Sun overhead trying to cook us alive.
But we made it. The rooftop.
A full panorama of rust, smog, and skyline. Breathtaking. Unreal.
It was empty. But strangely perfect. As if the place had been waiting for someone to document its final form.
A warehouse turned museum. A grave turned monument.
It persists.
