South of Nashvegas, beyond the smoking factories of Lavergne, sits Murph Storage. Known for renting units to anyone with the creds, the place is filled with a plethora of strange and mundane junk.
There are no questions at Murph Storage. Pay your rent on time, keep the noise down, and don’t leave anything bleeding in the parking lot. Those are about the only rules old Murph seems interested in enforcing. As a result, the rows of battered steel doors have become home to more than forgotten furniture and boxes of old clothes.
Runners use the units as dead drops. Smugglers stash contraband there until the heat dies down. Street mechanics operate illegal chop shops behind half-closed doors, and more than one mercenary keeps a spare set of weapons at Murph’s for emergencies. Mixed among it all are perfectly ordinary units filled with busted appliances, childhood keepsakes, cheap synth-furniture, and the belongings of people who disappeared years ago.
Rumors persist about Unit 38, whose rent has been automatically paid every month for nearly twenty years, though nobody has ever been seen entering it. Another unit supposedly contains a military-grade cybernetic rig taken from a wreck outside the city. And somewhere in the complex is a storage locker belonging to a Nashvegas crime boss who would very much like everyone to forget it exists.
At Murph Storage, every steel door hides somebody’s past—and occasionally somebody’s next payday.