A sprawling, half-operational shipyard full of decommissioned vessels, rusting drydocks, and the kind of quiet corners where people disappear.

The Gellhorn Shipyard is what happens when a once-mighty industrial facility goes through fifty years of decline but keeps just enough business to not officially close. Two drydocks at the western end still service working ships, employing a few hundred welders, fitters, and electricians in physically punishing work that hasn't been modernized since Reagan was president. The rest of the yard is a rusting graveyard - decommissioned fishing boats collapsing in on themselves, cargo vessels stripped down to their hulls, gantry cranes frozen mid-motion with cables hanging like severed tendons. After dark, the yard becomes something else entirely: fight clubs in the drydocks, deals on the piers, and the kind of business that happens specifically because nobody is ever going to investigate a gunshot in a place that sounds like this twenty-four hours a day anyway.