Being born again wasn't sacred. It was claustrophobic.
Suffocating light. Wet breath. Arms that trembled with joy I didn't understand.
I wasn't crying from instinct. I was screaming because I remembered death.
And now I was alive in a body too small to hold who I'd been.
My name used to be Renji Kazama.
Now I was Akira Ramou.
My mother—Kiyo—had the strength of someone who never needed to prove it.
She was Gray Spectra. Common, they'd say. Basic.
But I saw the way she moved without tiring, how she could hold three bags in one hand and open a door with the other, how she stood straighter than women half her age.
She never activated her Spectra to show off.
She didn't need to.
Her eyes were brown—like most people before awakening.
Spectra only showed when willed, and children didn't manifest until their teenage years.
My father, Masato, was Blue.
He was a logistics mind—ran a shipping network that spanned cities.
His words were measured, his movements precise.
And when he activated his Spectra, his eyes shifted to that sharp, cool cobalt—like his brain had just flipped into overdrive.
They never spoke down to me. Never demanded.
But I always felt like they were waiting.
Not for me to grow up.
But for something to appear.
I didn't pretend to be average.
But I didn't show everything either.
By age four, I could read.
I waited until five to let them notice.
At six, I could run mental math faster than the games my father gave me.
But I slowed down just enough to stay in the lines.
It wasn't fear.
It was self-preservation.
I didn't want eyes on me—not before I understood what kind of second life I'd been given.
It was around that time I felt something.
In class. A math exercise.
Nothing special—just numbers. But suddenly, I could see the patterns in everything.
The air grew still. The buzzing lights above dimmed just slightly. My vision narrowed.
My pencil cracked in my hand.
I snapped back before anyone noticed.
But my fingers were warm. My breath, shallow.
It wasn't just brainpower.
It felt like something under my skin had flexed—uninvited.
I told no one.
A few weeks later, I met Kaito Tanaka.
Same age. Blonde. Bright grin. Shoes never tied right.
He introduced himself by stealing my lunch.
"You don't talk much," he said, mouth full.
"You don't knock," I muttered.
He laughed. "Cool. We'll get along."
He returned the next day with a snack of his own and shoved half in my face like it was repayment.
We didn't talk much at first.
But he kept showing up.
And then it felt wrong when he wasn't around.
Kaito was chaos, but also weirdly calculated.
He'd solve puzzles backward just to see if they still worked. Could ace a test and forget his shoes in the same breath.
"Being smart's only fun when it surprises people," he told me.
"Otherwise, what's the point?"
He was smart. Probably Blue like his father.
But he didn't carry it like a badge. He carried it like a backpack—heavy, tossed over one shoulder, and never zipped up right.
Then came his sister, Emi.
One year older. Sleek black hair. Sharp eyes that made you rethink your posture.
She walked in on us building a cardboard mech suit and said:
"You two are idiots."
"Correction," Kaito said. "He's the engineer. I'm the idea guy."
I looked up, expecting her to walk away.
She didn't. She sat, crossed her arms, and said:
"Well then, Engineer. Make it walk."
I didn't.
But she helped anyway.
Emi wasn't soft. But she saw everything.
She noticed how my smile faltered when people praised me too much.
She noticed how I stopped talking when Spectra came up.
She never asked.
But sometimes, when I went quiet, she'd glance over and mutter:
"You thinking too hard again, idiot?"
It always pulled me back.
With them, I wasn't whole. But I wasn't empty either.
Kaito brought chaos and light. Emi brought silence and honesty.
And somewhere in between, I started feeling like less of a ghost.
But I still kept parts of myself hidden.
Not the past. Not my memories.
The pressure.
The feeling that something inside me was watching, waiting.
It wasn't constant. But every now and then, when I was still, I could feel it hum beneath my skin. Like static in my veins.
Like Spectra trying to reach out too early.
They say you awaken around sixteen, during the Soul Lens Trial—a ceremony every citizen undergoes.
It's not a test. You don't pass or fail.
You enter, your soul is read, and your Spectra is awakened.
Afterward, the government issues your Spectra ID—a permanent record of your classification and potential.
Until then, you're just a name.
No aura. No color. No power.
Most people get Gray—stable, durable, dependable.
Some, Green—speed and strength.
Others, Blue—sharp minds, cold logic.
The rarest awaken Violet, used by elite forces, with powers that manifest upon activation.
And some… change after.
Red Spectra isn't given.
It's triggered.
You awaken normally—Gray, Green, Blue, even Violet. But if your heart corrodes—if hatred, grief, or rage fracture your soul—your Spectra shifts.
Only seven Reds have ever been recorded.
And the worst of them was called:
The Last Red.
He appeared from nowhere.
Not just powerful—broken.
Cities fell. Spectra lines collapsed. His very presence disrupted the flow of energy across entire regions.
He didn't fight. He conquered.
The world had no answer.
Until, one day, a Gold Spectra user awakened.
Gold doesn't come from training or lineage.
It comes from purity. Selflessness. Acts of overwhelming compassion.
Where Red corrupts, Gold restores.
They are as rare as they are sacred—only ten known in history.
The first Gold faced the Last Red.
He died.
Three months later, a second Gold emerged.
She died too.
One month after that, a third Gold awakened.
When that Gold confronted the Last Red…
neither of them were ever seen again.
Some say they killed each other.
Others say one is still alive, hiding.
No Golds have awakened since.
No Reds have returned.
But every time someone talks too confidently about their Spectra dreams, someone in the room will lower their voice.
"Just pray it's not Red."
I heard that story when I was eight.
And that night, I couldn't sleep.
Not because I feared becoming a Red.
Because part of me wondered if I already was.
Sometimes I stood in front of the mirror, bare feet cold against the tile.
My eyes were brown. Still. Plain.
But I'd feel it—underneath.
Like something was staring with me, not at me.
One night, my reflection didn't blink when I did.
Just for a moment.
I didn't scream.
Didn't cry.
I turned away.
But my chest was tight the rest of the night. Like I'd swallowed lightning and dared it not to strike.
I told myself I'd awaken Gray.
That I'd be normal. Safe. Unremarkable.
But the truth?
Whatever's in me… it's not waiting to be discovered.
It's waiting to be unleashed.