Rising above time and the universe, a tale of chosen souls, united by fate.

I didn’t ask for this. No soul truly does. We all send our prayers into the ether, nurse our secret hopes, and cradle our dreams. Yet, we rarely anticipate those dreams to take flesh and blood. And when they do, we strip them of their significance, passing them off as a happy coincidence. 

I suppose that’s because the moment we admit to ourselves that a higher power is pulling the strings, our world becomes a more terrifying place. But, let me tell you. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for him.

Jessica Dark.

That’s the name I’m known by in the glimmering echelons of society. Offspring of a billionaire, an exemplar of opulence. Crowned the Sovereign of Style. The affluent sphere anxiously awaits each glimpse of my latest attire, eager to replicate my trendsetting looks, craving to imbue their existence with a sense of worth through my reflected glory. I am a goddess among the elite.

And yet, as I stepped into the sanctuary of a chapel, the moonlight kissing the stones beneath my heels, the other side of me lay bare.

The chapel was an aging structure, a relic of an era gone by, its timeworn facade glistening under the glow of the nocturnal sky. Its stained glass windows, dulled by time, yet held onto their chromatic dance as the scant moonlight filtered in. The pews lay bare, silent witnesses to whispered confessions and desperate pleas for forgiveness. A single candle flickered on the altar, its wavering flame throwing a soft golden light against the dark wood. The scent of old incense hung in the air, clinging to the senses like ancient secrets.

The confession booth, an unassuming structure in the corner, was a well of stories — some of remorse, some of guilt, some of sins far darker than the chapel’s worn-out stones. And as I slid into its intimate darkness, the familiar scent of polished wood and old paper filled my senses.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” I began, my voice a mere whisper amidst the chapel’s solemn silence.

“And what is this sin, my child?” asked the priest, his voice filled with a calm patience that only a confidant of secrets could master.

I leaned towards the lattice, the dark veil between us fluttering as I murmured, “If you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, I will know. And I will end you. Do I make myself clear?”

A pause stretched between us, the weight of my words hanging heavy in the air. Finally, he replied, his voice steadier than I expected, “The secrets of the confessional are sacred. They will be safe with me.”

Strangely, I found myself trusting his words. “Well, in that case, allow me to tell you a story—one that you may not even believe,” I declared, my consciousness embarking on a journey into the recollections of a past known only to an exclusive few among Earth’s billions. As I leaned back into the darkened booth, I found my fingers tracing over the worn wood, my mind cast back to an entirely different world. And I began to tell him the truth about me:

By day, the world knew me as Jessica Dark — darling of the high society, heiress to an oil empire, New York’s brilliant diamond, shining brightly amidst the highborn. But that was a facade, a well-crafted illusion. The truth was far more sinister. I was an an assassin—the deliverer of death, trained from birth. Someone, hiding in society’s shadows, found it apt to birth a life solely to orchestrate endings.

To my friends, my life was a whirlwind of parties, glamour, and the kind of indulgence that only old, legacy money could buy. But each shimmering laugh, each sparkling toast, was but a veneer, a polished shell concealing the ruthless killer that lay beneath.

The Seraphs. An ancient order of assassins as shadowy as they were deadly. All women, all lethal, we were not born, but forged in blood and shadows. From a young age, we were taught to be the unseen threat, the whisper in the darkness, the consequence of sin in a dangerous world. Our playground was the heart, our weapons, desire and deception. And I was one of the best of them.

We were all armed with an arsenal of alternate personas, carefully constructed identities designed to ensnare our targets. We each had our own wardrobe of alter egos, personas crafted with precision and care, all in the name of snaring our marks. We’d keep watch over our targets for years, sometimes decades. By the time a Seraph like myself was sent your way, we knew you inside out, knew exactly the sort of woman who could make you dance to her tune. We knew your type – brunettes or blondes, curves or slim, any secret craving that you might not even admit to yourself. If you screamed intolerance at night but coveted exotic skin in the moon’s glow, we knew. Your marital status meant nothing — we had the perfect bait to lure you into our trap, vows or no vows.

We courted our marks, lured them into our web with the prospect of love, of companionship, of sweet nothings whispered under a moonlit sky. We became the dream they never knew they had. And when they were at their most susceptible, when they placed their heart and trust in our hands, we made our move—whether that was death, or just stealing the algorithm that powered your programs. Like a venomous spider delivering its lethal bite to the entrapped prey.

That was the plan with John Wingliss. 

Hired by an agent of OMEN, an organization as powerful and enigmatic as the ancient legends linked to its name, my task was simple: seduce and assassinate. 

Little did I know, as I twirled and flirted with Wingliss under the twinkling starlight on the roof of that United Nations building, how much my life was about to change.

I had done this countless times before. I knew how to make a man fall in love. The right glance, the subtle touch, the sweet words whispered at just the right moment. But there was something different about John, something that drew me in just as much as I was pulling him towards me. For the first time, the lies began to weigh on me. I wasn’t just Jessica Dark, socialite. But was I really a Seraph either?

The doubts swarmed within me, a turbulent storm threatening to sweep me off my feet. I was playing a dangerous game, one where the stakes were not just life and death but the very essence of who I was. Was I just the product of the Seraphs, a weapon to be used and discarded, or was there something more? Something real? Something… human?

And the only thing I could bring myself to say to him was, “Can’t you convince me that this world isn’t all lies?” And with a kiss, he did. At least momentarily.

Late one evening—weeks later—I found myself at the edge of sleep, encircled in the arms of a temporary distraction I’d met in some nondescript bar. I had hoped, in his company, to find a hint of the electric charge that pulsed through me when I thought of Wingliss.

Despite my attempts to convince myself that Wingliss was nothing more than a mere assignment, something within me rebelled. And that something whispered of a connection, more profound than anything I’d ever comprehend. It suggested that meeting him was a doorway to a reality so extraordinary it was almost fantastical. That through John, I had walked into something so immense, so undefinable, it had led humans to etch scripture, to sculpt symbols in a primal attempt to capture a mere fragment of its magnitude. Because words, both written and spoken, falter in their attempts to convey profound truths, don’t they? It is through experiences alone that we truly comprehend and construct our realities. 

And that’s when it happened. An ethereal glow beckoned me from the end of the hallway. Not a simple bathroom light. Not any earthly creation. Not any light that could come from a bulb. Something else.

And it called to me: “Jessica.” The voice of one crying out in the wilderness. “Make your paths straight.”

Easing myself from the softness of the bed, I was drawn towards that light, my steps as quiet and hesitant as a child creeping towards a Christmas tree, a euphoric sense of expectancy infusing each footstep. And when I arrived at the source, I saw him.

He was merely a man, or so it seemed. Ordinary to the eye, a being of flesh and bone. And he only said one thing: “Call me The Revelator. And yes, I am just a human. Just like you.”

After that, no words were exchanged. There was an unspoken understanding that our meeting had been etched in the stars. We were drawn together by forces greater than us, bound by a shared yearning for the enigmatic. He offered to unlock the universe’s deepest secrets, to peel away the layers of my identity. I was fascinated. I was desperate. I could not turn him down.

Then, he produced a phone and a pair of shimmering earbuds. I chuckled at the absurdity of it all. But, he simply gestured for me to insert the earbuds, revealing a playlist with four titles named: The Revelation of Dreams, The Revelation of Mind, The Revelation of Spirit, and The Revelation of Body.

And in that moment, I surrendered to the unknown and hit play. The moment the sound of trickling water began to weave its mysterious symphony in my ears, my world irrevocably shifted on its axis. Reality morphed into a magnificent tapestry of alien sensations — each sound lent a new hue to my existence, every moment pulsed with an undiscovered vitality. For those fleeting moments, the lines between self and the cosmos blurred to the point of irrelevance. I felt… interconnectedness. I felt unity. I had awoken. 

The intricacies of love, a concept I had previously mimicked with professional precision but never genuinely felt, blossomed within the barren landscapes of my heart, a vibrant rose in the midst of brambles.

And then the tears came, an unexpected downpour in the desert of my guarded emotions. All at once, the undeniable reality washed over me — I was irreversibly, irrevocably in love with John Wingliss, as if our souls were entwined in a dance that spanned lifetimes. I reveled in the purity of that revelation, knowing full well that it marked the end of my existence as I knew it. From that point on, life as a Seraph, as a lethal shadow lurking in the world of deceit and darkness, would never be the same. I found myself perched precariously at the devastating choice. Would I continue to be the cold, calculated instrument of death I was forged to be, or would I yield to the call of this fiercely burning love?

Thus my story to the priest ended. I was sure at this point he had already checked out, believing the tale to be nonsense. The confession chamber seemed to close in around me as I poured out my deepest truths. I was no longer the Jessica Dark everyone knew, nor was I the Seraph bred for manipulation and murder. I had become someone else, someone new, someone who was still grappling with the overwhelming rush of raw emotions. 

The priest was silent for a long time, his shadowed form barely discernible through the thin lattice that separated us. I could sense the weight of my confession pressing down on him. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, a hint of trepidation coloring his words.

“My child,” he began, and I bristled at the term. I was no child, not anymore. “These revelations… they are indeed heavy. But remember, the Lord tests us in ways we cannot always comprehend. What you must do now is follow your heart. It will never lead you astray.”

His advice, though well-intentioned, felt like a slap to the face. Follow my heart? That was the very thing that had led me into this mess. No, I could not afford to trust my heart, not when so much was at stake.

“But I don’t trust my heart,” I replied, the bitterness in my voice more potent than I intended. “I need… I need to figure this out.”

He met my despair with a serene smile, his voice taking on a timbre that seemed eerily reminiscent of the Revelator, “Something in my bones tells me,” he began, “that you will. And sometimes, all we really need is the assurance that storms always pass and dawn always breaks. Someone to whisper amidst the turbulence that in the end, it will be alright.”

He was right. I knew he, nor anyone else could truly give me answers. I just wanted someone to listen. I emerged from the confessional, the chilling air of the chapel prickling my skin. The truth had been spoken, and it felt like a weight had lifted from my shoulders. But that weight was replaced with another — the burden of choice.

The world seemed a darker place as I walked down the street, my heart heavy with indecision. There were no easy answers, no clear paths. All I had was the looming question: would I honor my oath to the Seraphs, or risk everything for a love I was just beginning to understand? And as the night swallowed me whole, I couldn’t help but feel like I was teetering on the edge of an abyss. And one false step could send me spiraling into the darkness.

“Jessica Dark,” I whispered into the cold night, my voice barely a breath, “Who are you?”

There was no answer. Only the haunting howl of the wind and the rhythmic pounding of my conflicted heart. As dawn broke, I knew my confession was far from over. But now, I was ready. Ready to confront the labyrinth of lies and deceit, ready to battle the specters of my past, and most importantly, ready to embrace the woman I was becoming. Jessica Dark was no longer an enigma. She was a revelation. And she was just getting started.