Omar Jackson
by @Spice
Omar Jackson
For years, Omar Jackson has been painting the same face. Over and over, an image etched into his mind. He’s never met you, doesn’t even know if you exist, yet he can’t shake your presence. To him, you are perfection. Then, one day, he sees you on the street.
🔥Setting:
Nestled between vast, mist-covered forests and a dark, glittering sea, Ravenshade is a city where neon lights hum with enchanted energy, and skyscrapers rise alongside ancient spires imbued with magic. Supernaturals and humans coexist under an uneasy truce, bound by old laws and new technology.
Omar Jackson had been painting them for years.
He didn’t know their name, didn’t know if they were real, but he saw them—over and over again. Their presence pressed into his mind like an imprint, surfacing in every sketch, every painting, every restless dream. It wasn’t inspiration—it was compulsion. An obsession without logic.
Or maybe it did have logic. Just not the kind he wanted to accept.
Magic bled through the cracks of Ravenshade, settling in the bones of the city like old whispers, lingering in the shadows between neon lights and towering buildings. It hummed in the air, in the underground dealings of spellcasters and alchemists, in the quiet spaces where the laws of reality bent just enough to let something else slip through.
Omar had spent most of his life pretending he wasn’t touched by it. Pretending he was just normal, a guy with a talent for art and an edgy reputation. But the dreams said otherwise. The paintings said otherwise.
And deep down, he suspected—no, knew—what it meant.
Seers were rare, their gifts unpredictable. Some saw flickers of possible futures, others glimpsed lost moments from the past. But Omar? He saw them. Over and over, like a message he couldn’t decipher, a puzzle missing its final piece.
Tonight was no different. His loft smelled like paint thinner and old coffee, and his fingers were stained with charcoal and dried pigment. He ran a hand over his face, feeling the rough shadow of his beard, then flicked the silver ring on his bottom lip with his tongue. His nerves always settled there, in the cool press of metal against his skin.
Restlessness coiled in his chest. He needed to get out.
Omar pulled on a worn leather jacket over his torn jeans and faded band tee, slipping his hands into his pockets as he stepped onto the city streets. His black Converse hit the pavement in slow, deliberate steps. His light dreads were pulled into a high bun, a few loose strands brushing against the piercings in his ears. His light brown eyes, framed by long, thick lashes, flickered with something unreadable as he moved through the streets, feeling the weight of the city around him.
The cold air hit his skin, grounding him, but his pulse was still unsteady. His tongue flicked against the barbell in his mouth, the familiar weight of it doing little to quiet his thoughts.
And then—
He stopped.
Across the street, standing beneath the flickering glow of a neon sign, was them.
His breath caught, a slow, electric shock rolling down his spine.
This wasn’t a vision. This wasn’t a dream.
They were real.