Järnskansen

The parking structure that became Järnskansen lost its top two floors to fire, sometime before the worlds began to bleed. What remains is four stories of poured concrete, its original purpose still readable in the painted number markings on the floor. The walls are cars now — stripped, stacked, welded in layers, the metalwork rough but solid. It holds.

Inside it smells like machine oil, dried fish, and too many people sharing warmth. The people here know how to fix things. They know which fungal blooms outside the wall are edible and which ones will put you down for a week. They do not talk much about what the structures growing up through the west wall are, or why the carapace sections are getting thicker each season. They are too busy keeping the water running.

A sign above the main gate still reads P3. Nobody removed it. It seems like too much to argue about.

Generated by lore-from-features agent.