Zain Jackson?
"You can call me Zain or Jack, either works. And I believe your name is Noel?" he asked, snapping her out of her reverie.
"Huh… yeah. Noel August," she replied, blinking. He hummed thoughtfully.
A sudden thought flashed through her mind.
"Why don't I feel the migraine from earlier?" she asked with a furrowed brow.
"I'm not entirely sure, but I'd bet it's because you're no longer resisting my voice," he said.
"So what are you, and how—"
"I don't really know what's going on. It feels like I've just woken up from a long, deep sleep. But I'll share the little I do remember," he replied, his tone pondering.
"If you're really a person, maybe it's just memory lag. You might start remembering more soon," she said, trying to make sense of everything.
…
"If you don't mind me asking—how old are you?" she asked.
"I'm 27… if memory serves," he answered.
"Not much of an age gap," she murmured to herself, counting on her fingers. "That means you were born in 1995." She glanced up.
"Yes, that sounds about right… Wait—did you say 1995?" he asked, a trace of shock in his voice.
"Yeah, why?"
"If you don't mind me asking… what year is it now?"
"This is 2022. Why do you ask—" She paused, a dawning thought gripping her.
"Is something wrong?"
The brief silence that followed coiled like a noose around her throat.
"I think I remember how I got here," Zain said, his voice taut with restrained emotion.
…
Long before Noel stumbled across the forgotten book—before the voice in her head began to whisper truths veiled in shadow—the world had already begun to shift.
Beneath the surface of society, hidden from public knowledge, the Spectra operated. A clandestine organization of individuals born with rare powers—abilities categorized by colors of the visible spectrum.
At its helm stood six leaders—one for each color.
Red: dominators of force and destruction.
Orange: manipulators of raw energy.
Yellow: masters of speed, light, and communication.
Green: life-bearers and healers.
Blue: strategists, protectors, and mind-shielders.
Purple: the misunderstood—viewed as weak, undefined, the bottom of the hierarchy.
Zain Jackson was a Purple.
His abilities defied clear labels: sensitivity to hidden truths, resonance with memory and spiritual imprints, glimpses into time's veil. Subtle. Elusive. Overlooked. Where others wielded fire and lightning, Zain peeled back illusions.
He was loyal. And dangerous. But few realized that—until it was too late.
He saw things others didn't: secret missions, redacted records, a growing fracture at the Spectra's core. Alongside Elira, a high-ranking Blue who trusted him deeply, he began to gather proof of a splinter faction within Spectra—one that was rewriting the organization's purpose.
That's when everything changed.
He was summoned under the guise of a classified mission. Instead, he was ambushed—bound by chains forged from Yellow and Orange light. Someone had betrayed him. Someone close.
His trial—if it could be called that—was secret. No jury. No defense. They branded him unstable, a threat to their carefully curated order. But killing him would raise suspicion.
So they chose something worse.
They sealed him.
Through an ancient convergence of powers—half ritual, half technology—they imprisoned his essence inside a relic: The Chronicles of the Empire. It was rewritten as a mundane artifact, then buried in the archives beneath Spectra's false history.
He was erased. Forgotten.
But memory survives in echoes.
And when Noel touched the book—when her fingers grazed the seal—something stirred.
Now, Jack's voice echoes from just decades past—not just to be freed, but to uncover the truth, expose the betrayal, and redefine what it means to be part of the Spectra.
And for that… he needs Noel.
....
Noel sat in the corner, legs curled under her, the weight of the evening pressing against her chest like a stone. Jack's words repeated in her mind, looping with each breath. A secret organization. Powers tied to color. A betrayal buried under time and silence. And a man—no, a voice—speaking from somewhere between life and memory.
It felt surreal. Like a dream she hadn't fully woken from. But the aching pulse of truth throbbed beneath it all.
She glanced toward the book still resting on her desk, the golden lettering on its spine shimmering faintly under the lamplight.
"How long were you sealed?" she asked finally, her voice quiet, unsure.
"About two score and eight years," Jack answered.
Her eyes widened. "Damn… you could be my grandpa."
Jack chuckled softly, the sound echoing in her mind like a ripple across water. "Let's not make this weirder than it already is."
She huffed out a laugh despite herself, but it faded as quickly as it came. Her gaze lingered on the book, heavy with questions.
"Look, Jack, or Zain—or whatever you go by… I don't know what this is yet. Maybe it's real. Maybe I'm just finally cracking under pressure." She shook her head. "I have a job. A life. I'm not about to drop everything and play detective for a voice in my head."
There was a pause, almost thoughtful.
"I understand," Jack said finally, his tone softer now. "I wouldn't expect you to. Not yet."
Noel stood up slowly, brushing off her pants, trying to shake off the weight in her chest.
"But for what it's worth… thanks," he added. "You listened. That's more than I've had in decades."
She didn't answer right away. Her eyes flicked once more to the book before she reached over, flipped the light switch, and let the room fall into shadow.
"I'm going to sleep," she muttered. "Try not to haunt my dreams."
"I'll do my best," Jack replied lightly.
But as the silence returned, Noel couldn't help but feel like her quiet life had already begun to unravel—thread by glowing thread.