Shadowplay

The act of trespassing fills you with smug satisfaction.

A steel rod jammed between the blades. Death by sabotage.

A crate of jars.

You emerge from the tunnel into darkness. It crowds around you for a better look.

This complex stretches as far under the hillside as it does over it.

You were panting from the run over, heart thudding in your ears. Hours late. There was an astral door beside that trash can and an exchange…

Your eyes struggle to adjust to the dim light provided by the recessed bulb above you.

A good target for voyeurs.

You can see your reflection in the blade... Looks sharp.

A ladder hugs the edge of the canal, rust eating at its rungs. Darkened patches show where the water level has risen, lowered, then risen…

You're not going to just wear that boring, brown paper bag, are you? It's an insult to the rich tradition of facial ornaments.

A tangle of limbs collapsed over a single, dark puddle.

Boardgames with pieces set up for three players.

Somebody had a fire here. A barbecue... or burning evidence...

No encoded messages here. Just dirt.

The wind combs through yellowed grass. Around you, old foundations and half-built walls lean crooked against the sky.

A weather-worn building looms over you, its back to the road. Yellow-beige plaster peels like parchment, exposing old brickwork.

Too small for a guard dog.

An open cash register, ransacked.

A user console with a keyboard and monitor.

Nothing hidden here -- just an abandoned shoebox full of recipes.

Patient charts left out in the open.

A timetable of flights to and from Ile-de-Söze is tacked in the board's centre.

A familiar flash of red catches your eye.

This lock looks pickable.

Damp cardboard. 'FLOOR SEALED', badly scribbled over.

There's an old shrine concealed beneath this growth...

A very large poster... hiding a crack in the wall.

Some of these bricks are suspiciously loose...

Three postboxes, all of them missing the occupant's names.

Remnants from a past equal parts in surveillance and music.

Sheltering from the elements, while keeping an eye on the boats.

The corner of a bright candy bag peeks from the box, beckoning.

You step over the threshold and into a memory. This place -- this bar -- the centre of the frozen world.

A moorhen studies you intently from beyond the glass.

You are a blast zone. A vast circle of scorched earth and human ash waiting to happen. Abandon all pretense to the contrary.

Other people, they just go for it, but you, you like to keep something in reserve. Limit your exposure, you know?

Absolute hostility on behalf of the infiltrator must be presumed. It is the only sane approach.

Be the shroud the city needs. Walk the streets, snuffing out lanterns and hope. Be an acolyte of Gloom and spread the word.

This line of work can be nothing but songs you sing to yourself between curtain calls.

Keep up your hardcore ways and they'll have you in a bulletproof box, facing a tribunal for the crime of 'getting results'.

Uhh... something's peeling underneath your chin, right there.

Everybody knows males are the top level. You're destined for mediocrity, the eternal supporting role -- just smile and accept it. Only…

You. You are an animal. The divide between human and beast is an illusion, stops you unlocking your full potential -- your connection with…