Location index / Quarantine Grid, Tutuban
The grid is 2,000 square meters of built district, and none of it is set dressing. This is the walk through it, zone by zone, before you walk it for real.
Zone 01The Chapel
A stone chapel with a seven-meter bell tower, its roof opened to the sky. Squads pass the rusted gates and the moss-covered angel the crews call the Vigil of the Lost.
Inside, the pews still face the altar. Nobody remembers the last service. On mission nights, the chapel is where squads regroup when the corridor behind them stops being safe.
The Train
A fourth-class railcar that never left the yard. Green paint, yellow stripe, rust down to the bogies. The manifest says it was unloaded. The manifest lies.
The carriage is a chokepoint with two doors and no third way out. Hold the aisle or give it up. There is no middle option.
The Bus
A 28-foot transit bus that ran its last route the night the district was sealed. The destination board was never changed, because there was nowhere left to go.
The windows are shot out and the seats make decent cover. Drivers still check the mirrors out of habit. Nothing is ever in them, until it is.
The Ticket Booth
Every district had a way in. This was it. Galvanized panels, a custom signboard, a concrete step worn down by a queue that ended all at once.
Squads pass it on the way deeper in. The window is open. Nobody is selling.
The Gas Station
Vintage pumps under a high steel truss, brick walls sweating with age. The tanks ran dry in the first week. The light through the broken skylight still works.
Open ground, bad sightlines, one solid wall. Squads that cross it slow learn why the others sprint.
The Bus Stop
A curved corrugated roof over rusted steel seats. The schedule board is blank, which is the most honest sign in the district.
People waited here on the last morning. Some of their things are still waiting too.
The Phone Booth
A rust-brown kiosk with a domed roof and a receiver off the hook. The wiring schematic says the line was cut. The handset still hums some nights.
Marshals use it as a landmark. If your squad passes the Ghost Line, you are past the point where the briefing still helps.
The Coffee Shop
A small kiosk under the warehouse skylights, awning corroded, menu board half readable. Someone's order is still chalked on it.
It is the warmest-looking corner of the grid and the one that fools the most people. Warm is not the same as safe.
The Wasteland Highway
A wrecked sedan with grass through the floor pan, stacked industrial drums, containers that were never signed for. The district's traffic jam, frozen.
This is the grid's favorite ambush ground. Every engine block is cover. Every cover works both ways.
The Outbreak Zone
Tire piles, trash cans, a park bench nobody sits on. Signs from the first week: LAST CROSSING. KEEP OUT. NO RETURN. The signs were right.
The streets between the landmarks are where missions are actually won. The landmarks just get the photographs.
The Hospital
The ward where the district's story started. Metal-framed beds unmade, wheelchairs tipped in the corners, papers still on the nightstands. The records end mid-sentence.
Next door is the pharmacy they call the Last Prescription, shelves picked clean in the first panic. Beyond it runs the corridor the crews named Silent Breach, where moonlight comes through the broken skylight and sound carries farther than it should.
Reading the map is not the same as holding the corridor. Bring your squad and find out which zone your story happens in.