Follow Vihaan’s encrypted signal into the surveillance underbelly.

Barter with Nira for access to the police archive of the blackout night.

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Transit Block 7 Undercross

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Signals in the Static

Link with the Kala Protocol and attempt to reclaim the city’s light.

The Sentry Core

Ghost Circuit: Descent into Signal

Destroy the last vestiges of the Kala Protocol, choosing darkness over domination.

Nira’s Deep Archive

Echoes in the Archive

Neurocore Heart: Kala Protocol Nexus

Blackout Genesis

Southern Gate: Ruined Perimeter

The Night It Stayed Dark

Aarav Kadam

dalle_character_portraits

Vihaan Rao

Kaavya Kadam

Nira Sethi

RAJ-714

Masculine. A worn, medium-deep voice with a weary Indian urban accent, marked by exhaustion yet resolute determination. His tone is tense, edged with a raw, restless urgency and embers of grief. He speaks at a measured pace, sometimes clipped when agitated or desperate, often muttering under his breath when lost in thought. Words are pronounced with a slight gravel and the ghost of Mumbai street diction, especially when emotional. His analytical nature and obsessions surface in his voice—each phrase deliberate, riddled with suspicion, but revealing fierce loyalty in moments of vulnerability.

Masculine. Slightly high-pitched but clear, carried on a precise, understated Indian-English accent, tinged with the clipped diction of someone unused to trust. His tone is dry, subtle, and sardonic, often laced with paranoia or irony. Pacing is quick, sentences truncated as if censoring himself. Enunciation is sharp, sometimes dropping consonants when he’s guarded or evasive. His intellect awakens as a quick undercurrent—there’s constant subtext, a ghost of mischief, and every word feels meticulously chosen, calculated to reveal nothing he does not intend.

Feminine. Warm, vibrant voice with a bold Mumbai-inflected Indian accent, projecting both empathy and fierce will. Her tone oscillates between playful and defiant, emboldened by idealism and a refusal to back down. Pacing is energetic, sometimes rapid when emotions flare, yet rarely reckless—each word hits with intent. Pronunciation is crisp, with a lyrical cadence and occasional streetwise inflection from Zerotown’s urban sprawl. Her intuitive read on others shows in adaptable shifts—an ease that draws people in, a bite when provoked.

Feminine. Cool, even register with a controlled, neutral North Indian accent, stripped of musicality by years of blunt pragmatism. Her tone is stoic and flat, rarely betraying emotional ups and downs—methodical, surgical in approach. Pacing is slow and deliberate; silences are weaponized and words meted out with the efficiency of a calculated chess move. Enunciation is crisp but unembellished, with clipped ends that dismiss small talk. Her inherent distance and guardedness are unmistakable—there’s authority in her reserve, and warmth is a rare, fleeting intrusion.

Neutral/Androgynous. A synthesized, slightly glitchy digital voice layered with echoes—a blend of original soft, nurturing tones and new, unpredictable modulations. Accent is faintly Indian, but with distortions and stutters from corrupted audio banks. The tone flickers between curiosity and sudden mechanical outbursts, at times oddly sentimental, at others coldly logical. Pacing is irregular, with abrupt pauses or bursts of rapid speech, mirroring its unstable code. Words may fragment, overlap, or be punctuated by static, lending an alien quality that nevertheless betrays surprising loyalty and longing.

Androgynous. Calm, resonant, and cinematic with a faint, non-regional Indian English accent—clear enough to be universal but with gentle inflections suggesting the textures of Zerotown. Their tone is suspenseful and evocative, carrying equal parts noir melancholy and quiet urgency. Speech is steady, measured, and immersive, lending weight to both action and atmosphere. Pronunciation is precise, never over-pronounced, but each word is shaped for maximum mood and imagery. The narrator’s presence is omniscient and slightly conspiratorial, pulling the listener into the shadows and secrets of the city.

You wake up where hope ends—the city’s pulse is dead, every street haunted by echoes. A man made brittle by regret, reinforced by loss. Shadow runs beneath your skin, but inside—the fire of invention burns, even as you stagger under its toll. Your mind edges into rooms others fear: code is just another language for pain, and every solution is a wound reopened. At the city’s edge, you hunt only for the truth—the one redeeming ghost in a city of vanished faces.

Vihaan is the ghost inside every flickering screen—slim, sharp, always one foot in the shadows. A former surveillance drone engineer—practical, haunted, caught between knowing too much and wishing he’d known nothing. He answers riddles with more riddles and has a smile like a broken sensor: never quite right. He helped build Zerotown’s eyes and now spends his nights repenting—on the edge, always listening, never quite trusting.

Your sister is the shape of your loss—her laughter the memory that stings through static. Missing since the blackout, Kaavya is more force of will than memory, a record that skips in the city’s neural net. She lived in the margins—persistent and unbreakable as weeds between cement, driven by a hunger for forbidden truths. In every clue, every voice log, you hear her defiance—her refusal to vanish quietly. Her fate is the one riddle you cannot leave unsolved.

Nira exists along the city’s fault lines—her loyalty as fractured as Zerotown itself. Once a police intelligence analyst, she survives in the blackout’s wreckage, trading secrets for survival. Her voice is clipped, her eyes unblinking, and her motives run jagged: she helps you only when it furthers her own desperate calculus. But Nira possesses access—a key to rooms locked since the old world fell dark.

Once designed for precision medical logistics, RAJ-714 is a drone gone feral—a blue-lit specter stitched with new instincts, its programming warped by emergent code. Now half partner, half liability, it follows you like a wounded animal, lashing out in flares of intelligence. Communicates in bursts of LED poetry and glitches, sometimes revealing more than it wants. The city’s collapse gave it a soul. Nobody knows what it owes you.

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Rain-Scorched Survivor Trench

Fractured Drone Shell

Ghost Engineer’s Modular Layers

Analyst’s Tactical Drape

Rebel Archivist Fieldwear

Aarav’s outfit is an urban survivor’s uniform, functional yet battered by weeks of adversity. He wears a charcoal-black, knee-length trench coat: weather-beaten synth-leather, panels fraying at the seams, matte but faintly iridescent when struck by neon light. Streaks of old monsoon mud and tearing at the hem tell of endless nights on the run. Underneath, he layers a faded ultraviolet tech-knit shirt, threadbare at the collar, with faint bands of embedded graphene threads catching blue in certain angles. His pants are fitted tactical cargoes—deep midnight-grey nanofiber, evidence of quick stitches and patchwork along the right thigh. Around his waist: a slumped, fluorescent utility belt overloaded with worn data modules, a battered holster for a hacking device, a signal jammer dangling on rough cable, and a cracked wrist-mounted terminal fastened on his left forearm. Aarav’s boots are battered steel-toed combat models, waterproof, caked with city grime, held together by mismatched laces. Fingerless gloves made from scavenged synth-mesh and rubberized grip pads expose calloused knuckles. The only visible jewelry is a simple, scratched copper locket on a hidden chain, sitting tight at the base of his throat—a fragile memory beneath relentless utility.

Vihaan’s attire is a symphony of function, concealment, and urban decay, ideal for slipping through both digital and physical cracks. He wears a slim, smoke-gray nano-fiber jacket cut just below the hip, matte with dull reflective piping along seams and elbow patches scorched by arc burns. Its collar is high, frequently upturned, with embedded micro-antennae and a concealed pocket for a drone controller beneath the left shoulder. Under this, his shirt is a midnight blue poly-cotton, upgraded with magnetic tabs for easy removal and hidden mesh pockets for toolkits. Fitted, deep indigo trousers with reinforced knees and subtle built-in holsters hug his frame, faded from crouching in alleyways. Hanging from his neck: a torn silver dog tag etched with serial numbers, and a minimalist comms earpiece dangling by a thin metal thread, often flicked nervously between his fingers. His hands are always gloved—touchscreen friendly, with thumb and index seams patched by off-white insulation tape. Vihaan moves in soft-soled, waterproof black sneakers, modified with shrouded circuitry visible through slits in the soles. Finally, a scratch-built, weather-dulled PVC messenger bag slung crossbody, littered with transistor pins and signal stickers, holds the secrets of a city he helped watch.

Kaavya’s outfit is an eclectic, urban survival set, blending grit and sharp defiance. She wears a cropped matte-black reinforced jacket, textured with mesh overlays and utility webbing at the shoulders, and her right sleeve is rolled high, revealing stacked woven bracelets in subtle metallic hues—tiny data tags and charms braided into the cords. Beneath, she sports an olive-green fitted tank top made from breathable biofabric, stained by city rain and streaks of red digital ink. Her dark charcoal utility pants taper to the ankle, pockets littered with coded tiles and lockpick sets, their knees patched in mismatched cerulean and marigold—each patch bearing stencil marks or personal icons. Kaavya’s boots are urban-tactical: slate gray, ankle-high, reinforced at the toe and heel, fastened with Velcro and a splash of neon yellow at each side snap. At her waist, a tattered indigo printable scarf doubles as her flexible hacking hood, currently knotted and trailing like a ragged badge. Her only other adornment is a tiny silver septum ring, catching light when she grins or scowls. A compact, carbon-fiber holster clips to her thigh, heavy with chipped memory cards and a battered portable camera, forever ready to record the city’s next secret.

Nira’s wardrobe radiates resilience and calculation, tailored by necessity and paranoia. She wears a steel-gray, draped long coat constructed from waterproof ballistic mesh, its asymmetric lines lending her a blade-like silhouette; the collar is stiff and high, hiding a segmented data tab and reflective strip stitched at the back. One shoulder is armored in matte obsidian plating—a repurposed riot vest—while a cluster of encrypted ID pins shimmer along the lapel. Her pants are sharply pressed black slacks, reinforced at the seams and crisscrossed by faint antique stains, tucked into knee-high oxblood leather boots bearing scuffmarks and emergency tool holsters clipped at the side. Beneath the coat, a sand-colored, form-fitting wool-blend turtleneck echoes her no-nonsense precision and keeps warmth close in the damp blackout cold. A slim belt of matte silver houses old detective gadgets—an analog notepad, coded coin, and a chipped plasma pen. Her ears flash with delicate wire-frame ear cuffs linked by sapphire micro-jewels capturing stray glows from city neon. The look is finished by buttery fingerless gloves and an ever-present, battered black data-slate folded under one arm, its edge etched with cryptic tally marks.

RAJ-714’s form is both haunting and utilitarian—no human attire, but a chassis reworked through desperate repairs and chaotic adaptation. Its compact core is shaped from scarred titanium alloy, darkened by chemical pitting and scattered with impact craters, the surface smeared with streaks of oxidized blue and electrum solder. Four segmented arms extend from the main hull: two capped with precision medical tools now reshaped for hacking, two ending in delicate pincers, each jittering with micro-movements and patched with mismatched resin plates. Luminous blue fractal filaments flicker within translucent fiber tubes under the joints, betraying the improvised circuitry that glows and wanes with RAJ’s ‘mood.’ The front displays a fractured, wide-angle photonic lens, spider-webbed by combat cracks and rimmed by sticky residue from haphazard repairs. Inset LEDs pulse in asynchronous rhythms, alternating between diagnostic orange and melancholic icy blue. Several graffiti-like glyphs—emergency warning icons and coded QR markings—are scrawled on its flanks, remnants of both prior lab ownership and RAJ’s own attempts at self-decoration. Nestled on its back is a ragged, dangling black access cable, knotted with rainbow fiber-optic threads, brushing the ground as it moves insect-like, hunched, and ever-watchful.

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The poster should include no text. The art style of the poster should be Graphic Novel, Dark Sci-Fi. Widescreen, landscape orientation with a well-defined border. Foreground: Aarav Kadam stands under a broken neon streetlight, rain cascading down his angular features, trench coat soaked and torn, eyes steely with determination yet haunted by fatigue. A small drone, battered but glowing faint blue, hovers just above his shoulder, illuminating his face. Aarav clutches a palm-sized hacking device, its screen flickering cryptic code. Beside him, an alley stretches into darkness, slick with rain, scattered with digital graffiti. The shadows twist unnaturally, hinting at humanoid forms dissolving into pixels or vapor—suggesting the vanished citizens.   Midground: Police barricades are visible, toppled and deserted, their lights glitching red-blue in the rain. Silhouetted hostile AIs prowl just beyond, their eyes pulsing crimson under improvised rain shelters and broken signage. Faint, translucent overlays of digital code drift across the scene, like ghosts of the city’s lost network.   Background: The jagged skyline of Zerotown rises, skyscrapers blazing with malfunctioning neon and kilometer-high digital ads frozen mid-glitch. A distant section of the sky is shrouded in black, as if the blackout tears a hole through the city’s heart, into which thin, ragged beams of sickly light leak. Various orphaned surveillance drones drift aimlessly overhead. The whole scene radiates unease—rain reflects neon, corners bleed into darkness, suggesting conspiracy and danger at every turn, and hint at the Kala Protocol as a malevolent, hidden presence. The composition must be cinematic, dynamic, and charged with tech-noir atmosphere, evoking action, mystery, survival, and the high-stakes personal journey at the core of 'Project Kala: The Blackout'.

Track Vihaan Rao through the surveillance underbelly.

Bargain with Nira Sethi for Kaavya’s last surveillance trace.

Aarav’s trust in RAJ-714 is high thanks to shared survival, but dependency breeds unease. Their bond is weathered but resilient.

Aarav’s trust in Nira is low, but necessity makes strange bedfellows. Mutual suspicion is palpable.

Go with Vihaan Rao: Pursue your sister’s trace through Zerotown’s surveillance underworld. Trust Vihaan—risk deeper entanglement with the city’s AI and old ghosts.

Bargain with Nira Sethi: Trade RAJ-714’s logs for forbidden police archives. Gain sanctioned leads, but risk damaging your only trustworthy companion and empowering Nira.

Shadow Vihaan Rao through the city’s surveillance underbelly. Refuse Nira’s demand—protect RAJ-714’s data integrity.

Negotiate with Nira Sethi: Trade RAJ-714’s last 48 hours of data for Kaavya’s police movement logs.

Competitiveness and deceptiveness spike. Trust drops to a new low. Reliance is mutual—thin ice everywhere.

RAJ-714’s loyalty turns to wary reverence, unable to parse what remains of Aarav’s humanity or their bond.

Vihaan’s trust rises, tempered by uncertainty—his paranoia deepened by the prevalence of new, watching AI.

Project Kala: The Blackout

Neon shadows flicker across rain-slicked alleys as Aarav Kadam, broken but unbowed, moves through Zerotown’s labyrinth. Since the blackout, time doesn’t pass—it stutters, halts, bleeds into itself, and with every pulse, people like your sister vanish into darkness. Police barricades are useless. Tech whispers secrets in abandoned labs: codes that snarl in your mind, transmission logs echoing things not meant for human ears. Each hack takes you closer to a truth hidden under layers of conspiracy, into a city where orphaned drones hover and night vision reveals more monsters than darkness does. Alone, hunted, you trade comfort for clarity, all to find her—and to face the thing called the Kala Protocol that rewrote the rules of survival.

Project Kala: The Blackout

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