Greenwich Peninsula

The Thames riverside stretch south of the Isle of Dogs emerges as a raw, muddy expanse of reclaimed marshland and industrial flotsam—where the city’s gravitational pull weakens into salt-laced breezes and the river’s metallic tang lingers. Cracked concrete slabs litter the shoreline, overgrown with bracken and rusted rebar, while the skeletal frame of a disused crane looms in the distance. At night, the distant hum of the capital’s glow is visible on the horizon, but here the darkness remains thick and unbroken, unbroken only by the occasional flicker of torchlight from passing police patrols. The ground is uneven, littered with debris from the comet’s impact long since swept clean by official decree, leaving only the faintest depressions where something alien once made contact with Earth.