▓▓ NUSNUS: PERSONAL LOG // ENTRY 001 ▓▓

Location: Sector Null — Blackline District
Date: Unknown. Time doesn’t work right anymore.

The rain’s been falling for three days straight — or maybe three years.
Hard to tell in a city that forgot how to count sunrises. The streets shine like spilled oil, reflecting a skyline that doesn’t exist anymore. All static and shadows. The kind of place where even angels wear trench coats and carry burner phones.

They say this used to be a world of color. Reds that burned, blues that bled. Now it’s all shades of regret. You learn to read the difference between grey and darker grey — that’s how you stay alive.

I don’t remember when I started keeping this log. Maybe I thought writing things down would make them matter again. Maybe I just liked the sound of the keys — the last heartbeat of something human in a machine-built graveyard.

// ENTRY 002 — “THE ECHO JOB”

Got a ping from a contact out in the Eastern Blocks — a voice calling itself Mara. Said she found traces of “the color.” Thought it was another junk signal, but the coordinates checked out.

When I got there, the place was dust. Old broadcasting tower, half-eaten by rust and ghosts. Only thing left standing was a monitor, cracked but breathing static.

Then it spoke.
My own voice, repeating words I never said.

“You can’t find the color, Nusnus. The color finds you.”

I left before the walls started remembering me.

// ENTRY 003 — “BLACKLINE DISTRICT”

The city’s veins are clogged with power cables and lies. Corporations run the grid, but nobody’s home upstairs. Half the population jacked into dreams they can’t afford to wake up from. The other half pretending this place still means something.

There’s a bar called The Monochrome. No lights, no signs, just smoke and piano static. That’s where I do most of my thinking — and my drinking. People talk if you listen hard enough, even if they don’t open their mouths.

Bartender asked if I still believed in color. I told him belief’s just grayscale hope with better lighting. He laughed like a gun jammed.

// ENTRY 004 — “THE COLOR THEORY”

I’ve been piecing it together — whispers, data scraps, dead channels.
Every clue leads back to the same phrase: Project Spectrum.

Rumor says it wasn’t just an experiment. It was a purge. Someone tried to rewrite the world’s palette — strip out emotion, make everything uniform, safe, controlled. But the code didn’t stick.

Reality fractured.
Light bled out.
And whatever came next — we’ve been living in it ever since.

Now there’s talk of a survivor. Someone who still remembers what red looked like.
I don’t know if I believe it, but belief’s never stopped me before.

// ENTRY 005 — “THE GREY TRUTH”

Maybe this isn’t about finding color at all.
Maybe it’s about what we lost trying to make things perfect.

Every file I open, every name I dig up — it’s just reflections of reflections.
The truth’s not black or white. It’s the noise in between.

And me?
I’m just the last man trying to tune it in.

// END OF LOG // SIGNAL WEAK // CONNECTION TERMINATING...
> SYSTEM NOTE: “The absence of color isn’t darkness. It’s memory.”
The last shade of truth.
The one color this world couldn’t kill.

// END OF LINE