The shrill jingle of his alarm clock jolted Graydon out of restless dreams. The synthetic melody, was a gratingly cheerful tune that Chromapolis had adopted as it’s unofficial Hymne and dubbed „Rise and Glow“ . From what Graydon had heard, it was scientifically designed to boost energy and motivation. For him, however it only ever managed to boost his irritation.
Why, oh why had he still not changed the custom settings on his device?
He groaned, burying his head under the pillow, cursing his own laziness, but the relentless jingle persisted, the singer’s overly peppy voice chanting, „Rise and glow, let the colours flow! Chromapolis is calling, so up you go!“
“Shut up,” Graydon mumbled groggily, reaching a hand out to silence the device. His fingers fumbled along the bedside table, knocking over a water glass before landing on the smooth surface of the clock. He slapped at it ineffectively, the virtual buttons on the screen stubbornly resisting his attempts to mute the infernal sound. „Every street is a canvas, painted in light. A rhythm that pulses deep into the night. The world’s at your feet; it’s all in sight. In Chromopalis, everything’s right. Feel the beat in the air…“
The headache that had started as a dull throb when he first woke was now a full-blown assault, pounding in time with the song’s obnoxious beat. After several attempts and a muttered string of curses, Graydon managed to hit the right buttons in a way that the device would register it. Blessed silence descended on the room.
He lay back in bed, one arm draped over his eyes to block out the faint, pastel glow of the city lights filtering through his windows. The headache wasn’t just the standard morning fog. It felt deeper, sharper, like a hangover without the benefit of having drunk anything.
His thoughts drifted to the previous night: the underground lair, Jensen’s wild-eyed fervour, and Goldie’s cryptic notebook, which still lay open on top of his blanket. He tucked it away in the drawer of his nightstand. Last night, it all felt surreal, like something out of a half-remembered dream. But the notebook was in the drawer, and his headache told him it was real. Too real.
He couldn’t go to work. Not today.
Graydon reached for his tablet, hesitating as he stared at the smooth, luminescent screen. Calling in sick wasn’t unusual, but in Chromapolis, it wasn’t as simple as just saying you didn’t feel well. The system was designed to help and assist restoring the health of all citizens.
With a reluctant sigh, he tapped through the company’s health app and initiated a sick day request. Almost immediately, a notification popped up on his screen:
“We are sorry that you are feeling unwell. Thank you for notifying us of your condition. Please allow the doc-bot access to verify your status and help you get well soon.”
His stomach sank. Of course, the doc-bot.
Graydon glanced nervously at the window. He was already imagining the sleek little drone hovering outside, ready to glide in with its unnerving precision. The bots were programmed to scan for physical and emotional signs of illness and could issue prescriptions or treatment plans within minutes. People loved them for their efficiency. Graydon found them intrusive.
Worse, an irrational fear clawed at his mind. What if the doc-bot could see what he’d been through last night? The heightened adrenaline, the stress. It had to have left some sort of trace, hadn’t it? He knew it was absurd, but the thought lingered, stubborn and unwelcome.
He lay there, staring at the ceiling, debating whether there was any way to refuse the doc-bot without drawing attention. He couldn’t think of one.
His wristband pinged :
“Doc-bot en route. Please ensure your window is unobstructed.”
Graydon groaned, rubbing his temples as if that might ease the headache, or his anxiety.
He opened his windows and could already hear the faint hum of rotors signalling the doc-bot’s approach long before he could see it. He sat stiffly on the edge of his bed, staring at the window as if bracing for an intruder. With a soft chime, the doc-bot’s voice announced its presence. The machine hovered just outside, its metallic chassis gleaming in the pastel glow of the outside light frames.
“Good morning, Graydon. Please authorize entry for your health verification.”
Graydon sighed, his head still throbbing “Authorisation granted”, he said. The doc-bot flew inside with unnerving grace, its circular body supported by four whisper-quiet rotors. A small camera on a flexible arm swivelled toward him, its lens glinting like an unblinking eye.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” the doc-bot chirped, its tone just the wrong side of cheerful. “Please remain still while I initiate a full-spectrum scan.”
Graydon sat down on the bed again, clenching his hands into fists to channel his unease. The bot’s light flickered briefly, casting a grid-like pattern across his face and chest. Graydon felt exposed as if the bot wasn’t just measuring his vitals but peering into his very thoughts.
“Your pulse is elevated,” the doc-bot observed. “And your cortisol levels are above average. Likely causes: stress, sleep deprivation, or a recent emotionally charged experience.”
“I didn’t sleep well,” he said quickly. His voice sounded unconvincing even to himself.
The bot chirped in a way that reminded Graydon of a small robot from an old science fiction movie his dad had shown as a child. It seemed as if it was considering his excuse in some form of digital monologue. Its lens zoomed in slightly, and the soft whir of its focus mechanism clashed with Graydon’s throbbing headache.
“Understood. Let’s proceed with an in-depth analysis.”
The machine extended a thin arm tipped with a sensor that hovered near Graydon’s forehead. He fought the urge to flinch as it scanned him, its display screen flashing with data he couldn’t interpret.
“Headache detected,” the bot announced. “Consistent with mild dehydration and tension. Recommendation: increased fluid intake, rest, and a low-dose analgesic patch.”
The bot’s compartment opened with a soft click, and a small mint green adhesive patch popped out. Graydon took it reluctantly, lightly slapping it onto his arm without a word.
The machine lingered, its lens still trained on him.
“Your behavioural indicators suggest hesitation. Are you experiencing any other symptoms you wish to report?”
Graydon shook his head too quickly.
“No. That’s all.”
The doc-bot paused. It didn’t have a face, but Graydon swore it somehow managed to project scepticism.
“Reminder: Failure to disclose health concerns could result in prolonged recovery or workplace inefficiency.”
“I’m fine,” Graydon said, sharper this time.
Another pause. Then, the bot retracted its arm and backed toward the window.
“Understood. Your condition has been verified. Sick day approved. Please rest and recover promptly.”
With that, it slipped out of the window, disappearing into the colourful haze of the city.
Graydon exhaled, tension draining from his shoulders. But the unease remained as he looked down at the adhesive patch on his arm.
Had the doc bot scanned too deeply? Seen too much? Was it really just a machine, or did someone,or something, review the data it collected?
Shaking his head, Graydon closed the window. He needed to focus. The doc-bot was gone, but the questions raised the previous evening were not.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at the adhesive patch on his arm. The spot where he’d slapped it on felt oddly warm. He knew it was probably just his imagination, but it still made him uneasy.
He tugged at the edge of the patch, lifting it slightly before pressing it back down. The doc-bot had said it would help, but what else might it be doing? Was it just a simple analgesic, or could it be a tracker, some kind of device feeding his vitals, or worse, his location, back to a central database?
It was a ridiculous thought. He knew that. The patch was smooth and flat, its underside nothing but adhesive and a faint hint of the chemical compound it contained. He’d had them before, hadn’t he?
But what if…
Graydon let out a short, bitter laugh.
“Paranoid,” he muttered to himself. “Completely paranoid.”
Yet his hand hovered over the patch again, his fingers itching to peel it off. With a sudden, decisive movement, he yanked it free, wincing as the adhesive tugged at the hair on his skin. He flipped the patch over, holding it to the light, scrutinizing every inch of its surface.
There was nothing. No circuitry, no hidden device, no indication it was anything more than what the doc-bot claimed it to be. Still, the thought wouldn’t leave him.
Graydon crossed the room, pinching the patch between his fingers as though it was a bug that might bite him. He stopped by the bed, grabbed a pillow, and smoothed it onto the mattress. Slowly, he pressed the patch onto the pillowcase, patting it down to make sure it stuck. He arranged the pillow carefully, positioning it so the patch lay exactly where his arm would rest if he were lying in bed.
“Better safe than sorry,” he muttered.
He knew it was absurd. The doc-bot was gone, and the patch was harmless. But even as he stepped back from the bed, he couldn’t shake the sense of being watched. Somewhere out there, someone or something might be paying attention.
Graydon glanced at the window, then quickly turned away. It didn’t matter. He wanted to stay cautious.
He leaned over his desk, his tablet glowing faintly in the dim light of the apartment. His headache had dulled to a distant throb, but his unease lingered like a second skin. On the tablet, he searched for any mention of the Spectral Library.
He’d started with the obvious: official directories, public archives, even the city’s Cultural Access Network. Chromapolis prided itself on its transparency. Every institution was catalogued and searchable, from the smallest gallery to the largest corporation. Yet, he couldn’t find it. No Spectral Library.
He tapped through a few more links, scrolling through pages of unrelated results. Chromatherapy clinics. Spectrum Energy Solutions. Even a defunct hologram club called The Spectral Lounge. But nothing that even hinted at a library.
He felt frustration bubbling up. Marigold had seemed so certain. And her scrawled notes also looped around the words Spectral Library like it was the key to everything. He had not misheard the words, of that he was sure. Yet here he was, staring at a blank search result.
He leaned back, rubbing his temples. “Maybe I’m looking in the wrong place,” he muttered to himself.
Switching tactics, he accessed the darker corners of the network. Unofficial forums. Old chat servers. Places where people traded rumours, gossip, and half-truths. He typed Spectral Library into one such board and hit enter, hoping for anything—a scrap of information, a rumour, even just a whisper.
The page loaded slowly, its interface archaic and clunky. A single thread popped up.
Subject: “S.L.?”
User: [FearlessHero23]
Message: “If you’re looking for the Spectral Library, good luck. They keep it off the grid for a reason. Ask around the old quarter near Slate District. Look for the bronze door. But don’t knock unless you’re ready for answers you won’t like.
Graydon reread the message twice. It was vague, cryptic, utter nonsense. Why would anyone try to find a door, if they weren’t willing to enter? But it was also the first real lead he’d found.
He tapped the user’s profile, hoping to learn more, but the account had been deactivated. Convenient.
Slate District.
Graydon rubbed his eyes, his head was hammering. “Slate District”, he repeated to himself to help him focus. It was an area most people avoided. A part of the city where time seemed to stand still, its narrow alleys lined with ageing brick buildings, peeling facades, and cracked windows. The modern city had long since left Slate behind as if it were a forgotten relic.
But it had, as he thought, a couple of good and cheap restaurants and another thing that now came to his mind in the context of his search: The Old School Library. Built before the city’s rapid expansion, it had once served as a central hub for education, research, and public knowledge. Graydon’s mom had sometimes liked to go there when he was still a boy and would occasionally bring him back something to learn or play. Now, it was little more than a decaying monument to a past the city had outgrown.
Perhaps the Spectral Library was somehow connected to that. Maybe it was simply hidden in plain sight, buried under layers of time and neglect.
Graydon closed the tablet’s cover, stood and then headed for the bathroom.
He switched on the bathroom light which reflected off the gray-green tiles and stepped up to the sink to splash some cold water into his face. When looking up, his reflection stared back at him from the mirror. The face was pale, framed by dark, almost black, unruly hair, short on the sides with longer strands on top. His gray-blue eyes, washed out in this lighting. He looked tired.
Graydon went about his morning routine and applied shaving cream, lathering it over cheeks and chin. With short methodical strokes of the razor blade, his face, now clean-shaven, became visible once more. It was pleasant enough, yet unremarkable. Just another face in the crowd. Still, exhaustion was etched into his sharp angled features.
He turned away before he could dwell on it, peeling off his loose-fitting, worn gray T-shirt and matching sweatpants, along with the rest. He stepped under the shower, and let the water hit him cold at first, to shock the tension from his muscles before setting it to a bearable warmth. Soon steam curled around him, clinging heavily to the glass.
He never stayed in long, just enough to clear his head. To reset. He let the water wash away the half-formed thoughts still lingering from the night.
When he stepped out, the mirror was already fogged over. He wiped a hand across it, but the moisture blurred the image again almost instantly. Good. He had no interest in looking at himself anyway. After wrapping the towel around his waist he brushed his teeth in methodical silence.
Back in the bedroom, his movements were routine. The closet door slid open, revealing its neatly ordered contents. His hand reached instinctively for the slate-gray shirt, buttoning it in quiet, precise motions. His trousers, a shade darker, matched it in tone. They were pressed but not stiff, structured enough to avoid looking careless. His wardrobe was deliberate and functional. Simply practical.
He caught his reflection in the mirrored wardrobe door. The only splash of colour came, unwillingly, from the corporate-issued Chromadyne wristband circling his wrist in a shade of dark blue. He’d disabled the dynamic colour-syncing feature long ago, unwilling to let an algorithm dictate his supposed ‘personal harmony.’ The telemetry functions had taken a bit more effort.
Graydon hated the idea of being monitored, reduced to metrics, converted into data, flattened into something predictable. “Never let them turn you into a statistic. You’re not a pattern, you’re a person,”his father used to say, usually while hunched over a soldering station, coaxing stubborn circuits into cooperation under a bright task lamp. “Know the difference between a tool and a leash.”
The words lingered, still carrying their quiet weight after all these years. Graydon’s gaze drifted, landing on the pillow with the adhesive patch in his bed.
The old School Library… and now the Spectral Library? There was a strange symmetry to it, like puzzle pieces starting to form an image.
With a resigned sigh, Graydon put on his polished, well-worn boots. A dark casual jacket followed, settling comfortably over his shoulders. He stepped out of the door.