Description - Exterior
The building squats on Carpenter Street like something the city forgot to bulldoze. A sagging brick shell of an old mechanic’s garage, its corrugated steel doors are rusted in place, and the battered sign above reads only “Auto_” in chipped red paint. Broken glass windows have been replaced with plywood, though a few still have spiderweb cracks. Across the front and side walls are blotchy patches of gray and tan paint—hurried attempts to cover the vulgar graffiti left by the Ada Street Clovers earlier that spring. You can still make out a few cartoonish shapes if you squint. The lot is overgrown and strewn with empty bottles, dented cans, and a discarded tire or three.
Description - Interior
The garage interior is one part hideout, one part landfill. The concrete floor is cracked and oil-stained, and the smell of old grease and mildew hangs in the air no matter how many candles get lit. One workbench near the roll-up bay door holds the only consistently organized tools in the place. Behind a half-wall and a salvaged curtain lies a row of military surplus cots—this is where the Sinners sleep when they have to. A chain-lock door near the back leads to the vault, a reinforced parts closet now packed with cash, weapons, and secrets.
The back corner has been semi-cleared into a training nook—heavy rope, a punching bag, and a few crates used as chairs for long talks or silent fuming. Opposite that, a dark stairwell leads down to the sub-basement, where the workshop hums with life—alchemical vials, repurposed gear, and things no one admits to owning.
Run By
Officially, no one. Unofficially, the Southside Sinners hold it down. Their names aren’t on any deed, but their presence marks it clear. Cops don’t come by. Neighbors don’t ask questions. The crew runs the place like a bunker with a cracked roof.
Regulars
Charlie – Always scribbling notes or running ideas by the training nook.
Tommy – Knows where everything is. Probably the only one who does.
Merissa – Keeps the vault inventory in her head. Good luck getting access without her.
Sean – The first to patch the walls. The last to care if it worked.
History
Originally a family-run garage from the ‘20s, it was boarded up after the father was found dead in the grease pit and no one wanted to buy the cursed land. It sat vacant for decades—used now and then by squatters or as a drop for stolen parts—until the Sinners moved in last fall. The Ada Street Clovers tried to mark it as theirs in the spring, covering the place in spray paint, crude drawings, and a curse or two. The Sinners never forgot it. The Clovers probably regret it.
Notes
Garage (1): The old tools still work. Some of them better than they should.
Quarters: Cots, crates, and a locked cabinet of essentials. Don’t expect comfort.
Secure: Steel doors lock from the inside with a forged rig and a steel bar across the frame. The locals know not to snoop.
Vault (1): Converted parts room with double-lock, reinforced walls, and a clever trap.
Workshop: Veil tools, repair kits, and ritual chalk all share the same shelf.
Training (Resolve): The chalkboard has notes on cons, lies, and charm. It smells faintly of gin and turpentine.
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