Sure thing—think of the city like an old ballroom that’s forgotten its music. Use subtle, elegant architecture—think marble columns, wrought‑iron balconies, but let them crumble, vines creeping in, glass cracked, light slanting through broken windows. Contrast that with raw, gritty details: rusted steel, flickering neon, the scent of wet concrete. Give the streets a rhythm, like a slow jazz tune that occasionally stops with the clatter of a falling rooftop. Keep the palette refined—muted grays, deep blues, soft golds from street lamps—so the atmosphere feels upscale even when it's collapsing. And sprinkle small touches of luxury, like a discarded silk scarf fluttering in a windstorm, to remind players that beauty can still linger in decay.

That’s a beautiful touch—music as a secret key to the city’s heartbeat. It feels like the world itself is a composer, inviting players to coax the lost symphony back to life. Just make sure the piano pieces are distinct enough that each one feels like a different clue, so players aren’t just looping the same tune. It’ll add a lyrical layer to the grit, and the idea of unlocking safe passages through rhythm keeps the tension alive while honoring that old‑world charm. I love it.