Where would we be without knowledge? The inscription above the library entrance reads “Know Thyself”, a reminder of the importance of knowledge, of working to understand oneself, of striving to be better today than we were yesterday. Isn’t a library a type of threshold in of itself? All this knowledge at your fingertips, if only you’d take initiative and access it. If you want to ascend, you’ll be spending a lot of your time here, poring through volumes of regrets, memories, and of course, self-help books. With a many-eyed librarian haunting its hallways, it’ll be able to tell you all about what you really need to ascend. Not what you want: there are many places in the Threshold that cater to your wants, but the library holds the secrets to what you truly need.

Its walls almost breathe with knowledge: seemingly endless, sterile white corridors, a never-ending labyrinth that twists and turns as far as the eye can see. Like Baudelaire's library of Babel, it is said that every book here has infinite possibilities, and one may even hold the secret to ascension. So, keep looking. Keep trying. And don't be afraid to ask for help.

This simply, yet aptly, named area at the edge of Block 2845 is filled with a variety of vendors vaunting a veritable volume of valuables. Less an open-plan square, instead this area is dominated by a network of Victorian-style alleyways lined with nondescript stores and stalls. The rooftops are low in this part of the block; the few buildings that boast a second storey are typically home to a second shop on the top floor.

The Invigilators advise caution to citizens that look to acquire goods from the various stalls. Not everything for sale here is permitted, and an honest shop may be less differentiable from a Snake Den than you think.

Money, of course, is of little use to the venders in the market. Their goods and services are instead available to those with their own items or information to offer in trade.

One such shop in Market Place, Wyre Cutters, can be found up a flight of stairs down a narrow alley between two ground floor stores. Inside, an ensemble of biker decals and dark leather furniture create a rather aggressive energy in what is otherwise a standard hairdressers. The barber and owner of the space is one Albert Wyre – an imposing individual who nonetheless greets customers with as friendly a demeanour as his choice of attire can permit. They offer the services commonly found in mortal barbers – cuts, dyes, and such – but also, thanks to being a manifestation of an immortal soul rather than a biological form, treatments that can rapidly increase your hair growth to change your style in new ways you'd never consider on Earth.

The resident tattoo and piercing parlour, propped up by metal beams, exposed brick and vinyl. Far more ‘down to earth’ (so to speak) than some of the other establishments of Block 2845, the Stick 'n Stab is shoved down the back of the market. Private, not subtle, given its constant blare of punk albums, and the flickering of its neon sign (faulty, at this point it really just reads STSTAB). You'll find Renita perched up on the counter: a beloved regular, here more often than not (even with no skin left to cover), gossiping with Atom between his intermittent disappearances into the backroom.

You can’t pay in cash, so bring something to trade, or tell (although, if your concept, or you, are interesting enough, Atom might just do the tattoo for nothing). Whatever you are looking for, Atom will oblige, take a flash designs straight off the wall, where they're tacked up alongside band posters, or sit on the worn, ash-stained couch for a consult. What exactly are you looking for? American traditional, neo-gothic, or something else entirely? There's a winding metal staircase at the back, hidden behind yet another poster… but I recommend you have a word with Atom before you go snooping.

Down a spiralling metal staircase, protected from view by pipes and scaffolding, sits a gaslit dead-end street. The cobblestones here are permanently damp, but there is no rain - look to the sky and you'll only see the underside of a steel overpass that shields this place from any natural light. And nestled into the back of this gloomy alcove is the Whippoorwill – a Snake Den and self-professed “speakeasy” – that is, a secret bar and meeting place where citizens of all social standings can indulge in their vices free from the sober, moralising eyes of the officials.

Booze, like most things at the Whippoorwill, flows freely; some bootleggers even offload their wares here with no expectation for anything in return. And the atmosphere is never dull: swing musicians play double-four-time in smoke-filled rooms, as gamblers crowd around small wooden tables and play cards. People dance, they swap stories – and sometimes, when things get heated, they fight. But no two people in the Whippoorwill can stay enemies for long. Three songs in, and even the bitterest of rivals will be sharing a drink and reminiscing about their lives.

For all its beguiling allure, most people only visit this place once or twice, in moments of weakness or just to whet their curiosity. But then there are the regulars – the Lost Souls. Those who no longer have thoughts of ascending, and spend most their time here, whiling away the days. The officials will tell you to stay clear of such bad influences, but you can't deny that they seem happy, in their own way.