Graydon entered the expansive campus of the University of Chromapolis. Unlike the old School Library in Slate District, the campus seemed nearly futuristic. With its geometric architecture and glass facades, it was built as a prime example of the city’s modernity.
Students zipped past Graydon on automated walkways, proudly displaying their Colour Harmony Profiles; drones delivered coffee and nutrient-packed meals while holographic displays flickered overhead, advertising graduate programs: “Fast-track your future! Find out more now!” The campus thrummed with urgency. But to Graydon it seemed that it wasn’t the urgency of curiosity or discovery, but the frenzy of ambition. The scramble to secure the next internship, the next qualification, the next rung on the career ladder.
Graydon observed a group of students clustered around a neon-lit kiosk labelled CareerPath AI Advisor. The hologram of a smiling counsellor encouraged them to optimise their Colour Harmony Profiles to “maximize their industry appeal.” The students nodded eagerly, yet despite their colourful appearances, they all struck Graydon as uniform.
Education in Chromapolis, Graydon thought, wasn’t about understanding or questioning. It was about efficiency and streamlining, about driving social progress forward. He couldn’t help but wonder what was being left behind in the process.
He entered a bustling atrium and saw groups of students standing before digital information boards. He tried asking one, a young man in a bright blue-green blazer, for help. “Excuse me,” Graydon said, “I’m looking for Professor Tilda Umber.”
The student merely shrugged. “Never heard the name.”
Graydon tried again with another student, this one clutching a tablet. She glanced at him briefly before responding, “Maybe in Humanities? Or Art History? Or… wait, is Umber even still at the university?”
Frustration began to rise in Graydon and he looked at the displays wondering if there was some kind of site map. A voice called out from behind him.
“You’re looking for Professor Umber?”
Graydon turned to see a young woman leaning casually against the top of a nearby bench. Her jacket caught the light and shimmered in subtle gradients of purple and gold. She had long dark hair tied into a ponytail with some braided strands, interwoven with iridescent fibers that reflected the light. She smiled in a way that immediately made Graydon feel uncomfortable.
“Hi, I’m Iridium Flare,” she said, moving away from the bench and extending her hand. When Graydon hesitated to take it, she grinned. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite. Most of the time.”
“I… I’m Graydon Pallor,” he replied awkwardly, not shaking the hand which she now retracted. “And yes, I need to find Professor Umber. It’s important.”
Her green-grey eyes lit up with interest. “Professor Umber, huh? Now that’s a name you don’t hear every day. Bit of an oddball. Kind of like you, I’d guess.” She looked him up and down, tilting her head. “You know, grey is a bold choice in Chromapolis. Very… enigmatic.”
Graydon crossed his arms, visibly uncomfortable. “Do you know where Umber is or not?”
Iridium tapped on her chin as though thinking, clearly enjoying the moment. “Maybe I do. But why are you looking for Umber?”
“That’s personal,” Graydon said curtly.
“Personal?” She repeated the word, her grin widening with interest. “Mysterious. I like it.” She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “Umber isn’t exactly popular around here. Doesn’t play the Colour Harmony game, if you know what I mean. Doesn’t quite fit the campus vibe. They moved the office to one of the older wings of the physics department a while back.”
“Where exactly?” Graydon pressed, trying to mask his irritation.
Iridium hesitated as if debating whether to tease him further. Then, with a theatrical sigh, she relented. “Go down that hallway,” she pointed to a side corridor that looked far less polished than the rest of the campus, “and take the stairs to the lower level. The office is tucked away down there somewhere. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Umber is… different.”
Graydon nodded stiffly. “Thanks.”
As he turned to leave, she called after him, “Hey, Graydon!”
He paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
“Good taste,” she said with a playful wink, gesturing vaguely toward his grey outfit.
Graydon, becoming unnerved, shrugged off the compliment and hurried down the hallway.
The corridor was darker and quieter, its walls covered with torn posters and faded stickers. The light flickered irregularly, a sharp contrast to the lively, bustling campus above. As Graydon descended the stairs to the lower level, the hum of the university faded into a low, steady silence.
And then he saw it.
It wasn’t the grand, imposing bronze portal Graydon had imagined. Instead, it was an unremarkable wooden door, but it did have a circular bronze plate. In the middle it had an inlay that reminded him of the symbol he’d first seen at what he now thought of as ‚The Spectrumless’ Lair‘ and later in the book he was still carrying under his arm.
Shadows Where the Light Ends—was this the right place?
Graydon recalled the forum post he had read earlier that morning—it felt like much longer ago now: “But don’t knock unless you’re ready for answers you won’t like.”
Answers you won’t like.
He shifted the book into his right hand, as though needing something solid to hold onto, as a sudden wave of self-doubt washed over him. What was he even doing here? Chasing fragments of half-understood clues, clinging to a book whose meaning eluded him, on the trail of a professor he had never met. He didn’t even know which questions he wanted to ask, or which he should.
The familiar throb in his head returned, sharp and relentless. He rubbed his forehead with his left hand, but the ache didn’t subside. It was as if his body were warning him, urging him to let the whole thing go. Yet his other hand clung stubbornly to the book, its textured cover anchoring him in the moment.
The bronze inlay gleamed faintly, drawing his gaze once more. Get a grip, he told himself. He raised his fist and knocked. Three deliberate raps that echoed faintly down the empty corridor.
The knocks reverberated, and Graydon half-expected a mechanical hum signalling an automated reply. Instead, a sharp, unmistakably female voice called out: “Well? Don’t just stand there! Come in, or I’ll assume you’re another drone trying to report me for violations.”
Graydon hesitated briefly before pushing the door open.
The room wasn’t large and a chaos of eras. The walls were lined with bookshelves groaning under the weight of books amongs which stood some ancient tomes. In one corner, a holographic projector flickered, playing a file that was clearly corrupted as it stuttered and glitched. Stacks of photographs, sketches, and old film reels were spread across every available surface. The air smelled faintly of dust, aged paper, and overheating electronics.
In the midst of it all stood Professor Tilda Umber.
She was a woman in her mid-thirties and not at all what Graydon had expected. She had long, flowing brown hair, streaked with hints of deep auburn and red. Her attire was a chic deep-green dress beneath an oversized lab coat splattered with ink stains, faint scorch marks, and suspiciously vibrant splashes of colour. Perched on the tip of her nose was a pair of glasses with smudged lenses, that enlarged her hazel-coloured eyes.
If she had a CHP, it was organic and uncontrived. She somehow made Graydon think of an autumn forest.
Her features were soft yet defined, with high cheekbones and a gentle, slightly ironic expression that radiated both warmth and intellect.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Close the door unless you’re planning to invite the drones in, too”, she said.
Graydon cautiously stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “Professor Tilda Umber, I presume?”
“Obviously,” she replied, extending her hand not to shake his, but to gesture for the book. “Hand it over. Let’s have a look.”
“Um, how… how did you know about this?” Graydon stammered, reluctantly handing her the book.
“Oh, don’t fuss. So, Shadows Where the Light Ends. This might actually be useful for once.”
She moved to an overloaded desk, flipping through the book with rapid precision, muttering under her breath. Graydon cleared his throat, attempting to regain control of the conversation. “Professor, I was told you might have information about—”
“Historical erasure. That’s what you here for, isn’t it?,” she interrupted, snapping the book shut with a loud thud before tossing it onto a precarious pile of documents on a wobbly desk chair. “Yes, I’ve been researching Chromadyne’s manipulations for years. You wouldn’t believe what they’ve done to our history. The Colour Bleed—it’s everywhere.”
“The Colour Bleed?”
She turned to him, her eyes sparkling with fervour. “That’s what I call the process by which Chromadyne erases historical truths. It is subtle. Alterations to the colour spectrums of photographs, paintings, and even physical records. Over time, they shift, distort, and lose context until they eventually fade into irrelevance. I’m working to reverse it.”
Graydon frowned, his scepticism deepening. “And you think all of that can be undone?”
“With the Original Colour Code,” she whispered conspiratorially. “The algorithm that started it all. It’s the key to undoing everything. And I know where to find it.”
She reached for a faded, torn photograph pinned to a corkboard. It depicted a striking piece of art. A monochrome image of overlapping circles and angular lines. “This,” she said, tapping the image, “is the Monochrome Masterpiece. Created by Hue and Saturation, the Kaleidoscope Twins. It’s said to contain the algorithm.”
Graydon’s brow furrowed in recognition. “The Twins? Weren’t they part of that Chromaline drug ring?”
Tilda shot him a sharp look. “They were visionaries. If you’d rather focus on the tabloid version of their activities, be my guest. But their work went far beyond that. The masterpiece disappeared after the raid, but I’ve tracked down a lead.”
She leaned in closer, her voice dropping further. “Tonight. At a charity gala hosted by Augustus Vermillion.”
Graydon groaned inwardly. “Gus Vermillion? The guy who once tried to crowdfund a drone orchestra for his startup’s Christmas party?”
“Don’t underestimate him,” Tilda said firmly. “He may be eccentric, but he owns an extensive collection of rare art. And I’m convinced the masterpiece is in his possession. His party tonight is our chance to find out.”
“Why would he throw a party?” Graydon asked, still grappling with the absurdity of the situation.
„To attract talent for his tech startups and fund his pet charity S.P.A.M., Spectrum Pathways for Academic Mentorship,“ she said mockingly with an eye-roll. „A noble-sounding cause for underprivileged kids. And, conveniently, an excellent cover for flaunting his wealth. You’re not quite dressed for the occasion, but on the other hand, you probably never are, are you?“
Graydon sighed. „You don’t want me to join you! Seriously. I’m not one for parties!“ Graydon exclaimed more or less automatically and might have wanted to kick himself for saying it so promptly. Graydon was surprised that a part of him somehow hoped she would object. And she did.
„Want? No. Need? Yes.“ She exchanged her lab coat for a moss green suede blazer, grabbed a purse and slung it over her shoulder. „You’re coming. No arguments. I’ll explain more on the way.“
Graydon opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it. He wasn’t sure if it was her tone, her hazel eyes or the dim hope of getting some answers. He had a growing sense that he had no control over this quest anymore.
The hallway outside Professor Umber’s office suddenly felt sterile and quiet compared to the whirlwind of her office. Graydon trailed after her, his thoughts tangled in doubts and reluctant intrigue. Tilda moved with purpose.
„Look, Umber, I don’t do parties,“ Graydon muttered again.
„You don’t do a lot of things, from what I can tell,“ she shot back without breaking stride. „But tonight, you’ll make an exception. These parties aren’t really my thing either, but I need to find answers and by the look of it – so do you. And, please call me Tilda, you’re making me feel old.“
“Graydon”, he muttered, noticing he hadn’t even had the chance to introduce himself yet. Her certainty irked him, but he couldn’t deny the pull she seemed to have over him. He quickened his pace to match hers, his unease simmering just below the surface. „Why me? You clearly know what you’re doing. Why drag me along?“
Tilda glanced at him, a small, enigmatic smile playing on her lips. „Because you’re not part of this world,“ she said simply. „Gus Vermillion and his crowd? They live for the spectacle. You’re the least colourful person I’ve ever met. That makes you invisible to them, which might just make you useful.“
Graydon bristled at her words, but there was no malice in her tone, just a blunt honesty that left him feeling both exposed and oddly validated. „Invisible, huh? Thanks for the glowing endorsement.“
„Don’t take it so personally,“ Tilda replied indifferently. „Invisibility has its advantages, you know. Besides, I doubt you’ve got anything better to do.“
The jab stung more than he wanted to admit, but he let it slide, focusing instead on the strange, gnawing sense of inevitability that had taken root in his chest. His mind wandered briefly back to the book The Shadows Where the Light Ends was now lying on the top the heap of chaotic mess on Umber’s desk chair. It was strange to think how quickly it had slipped out of his grasp, physically and metaphorically.
„You should prepare yourself,“ she said after a moment.
„For what?“
„For Gus. He’s… an acquired taste.“
Graydon frowned. „I remember him from the earlier Chromadyne days. I was still a boy at the time, but my father enjoyed reading the headlines to me. Vermillion was often in them with his ridiculous stunts.“
„Still is,“ Tilda said, her tone light but her expression serious. „He thrives on chaos, and he’s smart enough to exploit it. If he does have the Monochrome Masterpiece, he won’t let it slip easily.“
They ascended the stairs, crossed the hallway, and exited the University through the giant atrium. Neon lights pulsed in the distance. „Come on,“ Tilda said. „The party’s at Vermillion Tower. You’ll fit right in.“
Graydon glanced down at his neutral, rumpled attire and raised an eyebrow. „Somehow, I doubt that.“
Tilda smirked. „I was being ironic, but don’t worry. You’ll stand out just enough to blend in.“