Chicago isn’t one city—it’s seventy-seven community areas pretending to get along. It’s a patchwork of parishes, precincts, and park districts. Lines are drawn by ethnicity, tradition, and who ran the numbers on your block. The city doesn’t just have neighborhoods. It is neighborhoods—each with its own rhythm, slang, and turf. Nobody says “I’m from Chicago.” They say “I’m from Canaryville” or “out by Humboldt.” And that tells you everything.   The Northwest Side is a patchwork of bungalows, taverns, and war stories told in Polish or Irish. It’s mostly quiet, but street crews still run numbers through union locals, and there’s a church near Belmont where the statues are known to weep—once during mass.   The North Side wears polish and pedigree, but under the ivy and opera is money moving quiet and fast. The Outfit launders clean through the art galleries and zoning boards, and the Veil here doesn’t bleed—it whispers through inheritance and old institutions.   Central Chicago is where the gears turn—glass towers, marble lobbies, and old men with soft hands and hard eyes. This is power’s playground, and both the Outfit and the Arcane Division have offices with locked drawers and red phone lines.   The West Side flexes, fades, and burns in cycles. Gangs here run heavy, territory shifts block to block, and Veil rifts open fast and dirty—usually during heatwaves or riots. Nothing stays buried for long, especially not bodies.   The Southwest Side is proud, tight-knit, and mean when cornered. It’s the turf of meatpackers, backyard mechanics, and clannish old grudges; the Outfit still pulls weight here, and there’s talk of a freight yard where time loops on foggy nights.   The South Side is a kingdom of ghosts, fire, and hustle. Black-led crews, union chapters, jazz clubs, and bootleg apothecaries all carve space here while the Veil hangs thick, especially where the old steel mills and slaughterhouses stood.   Know your area. Respect its lines. Cross them, and you’d better have a reason.