The Red File Book Two : Code Obsidian

Before the End

Noah wasn't supposed to remember.

That was the whole point—they said the mind would be clean. New. Like waking up from a dream you didn't know you had. But Noah's dreams had teeth. And lately, they didn't stay in the dark.

He remembered the cold first. Not the kind from outside, but the kind that wraps around your bones from the inside. Hospital sheets. Beeping monitors. Whispers behind glass.

He remembered someone crying.

Then—nothing.

Then fire.

Not literal fire, but panic. A rush in his chest like the air was being stolen. People shouting. Gloves. Needles. The sense that his body was quitting before his mind was ready. That was the worst part—knowing it was happening and being powerless to stop it.

Then—waking up.

Not in a hospital. Not in his bed. On a table, in a room with lights too white and walls too silent. He wasn't alone, but no one spoke. Just eyes behind masks, clipboards, numbers.

And he knew.

He knew something was wrong, even before the memories started trickling in—memories that didn't belong in a life he supposedly hadn't lived.

The first memory came like a glitch.

A red sneaker. Scuffed. His. One untied lace curled like a worm on pavement. He remembered looking down at it, annoyed. He'd been running—he knew that. Breathless. Not for fun. Not a game.

Running from something.

Then: the sound. Tires shrieking. Someone yelling his name—Noah!—and then light, too bright. A horn. The slam of metal.

Everything after that was pain and silence.

He remembered the white ceiling. A woman's face above him—his mother? But blurred. Her lips were trembling. She was holding his hand, but her grip was loose, like she already knew he wasn't coming back.

He remembered trying to squeeze his fingers. Trying to tell him not to cry.

He couldn't move.

He couldn't speak.

Then it faded. The noise. The weight. The world.

He thought that was the end.

But then he woke up.

And it wasn't the hospital. It wasn't his room. It wasn't anything he knew.

It smelled like bleach and metal. The lights buzzed. There was a tag on his wrist with a number instead of a name. His muscles didn't feel like his. His skin felt new, like it didn't fit right yet.

He wasn't alone.

There were others—kids, just like him. Blank-eyed. Quiet. Some cried. Some stared. No one asked questions out loud, but the fear was thick enough to choke on.

And the worst part—the part that made his stomach twist every time he thought about it—was the voice he heard in his head when he looked around that room:

"You're not supposed to be here."