The first thing I remember is the sound of rain.
Not my name.
Not my past.
Not the reason why my wrists feel like they've been bound before.
Just the rain—steady, cold, like the city was mourning something I hadn't remembered losing.
I opened my eyes in a hospital bed, the white sheets too bright, the silence too loud. A nurse flinched when I looked at her. That's when I realized: I must have looked like a ghost.
"Do you know where you are?" she asked gently.
I didn't.
I didn't know who I was either.
But then he walked in.
A man in a black suit, dripping with power like it belonged to him—like he'd bled for it. His eyes were the color of storm clouds, and when they locked onto mine, my heart skipped… not from recognition, but from fear.
"Darling," he said, voice low and smooth, "you're awake."
He said it like we knew each other.
He said it like we were lovers.
He said it like the sound of my name had been stitched into his bones.
But all I could think was: Why do I want to run?
"You don't remember me?" he asked, stepping closer.
I shook my head, and the flicker of something—pain?—flashed in his eyes. He reached for my hand. I didn't pull away, but every inch of my skin screamed at his touch.
"You're safe now," he murmured. "You're home."
But something deep inside me whispered back:
This isn't home.
And I'm not safe.
His fingers brushed mine.
And just like that—a flash.
Bang.
My breath caught. The room spun.
A gunshot. My scream. His blood.
The memory was sharp, quick, like glass slicing into my mind.
I gasped and pulled away, trembling. "I—saw something. A gun. Blood—someone fell—"
His expression changed.
Just for a second. Just long enough.
The mask slipped.
And then it was back.
"You're confused," he said softly, reaching out again. "The trauma is playing tricks on you."
But I wasn't sure it was the trauma that was lying to me.
He left not long after, saying he'd return tomorrow. That we had a life to rebuild. That I used to love the penthouse view of Veloria City from his arms.
The nurse brought me food I didn't touch. I waited until the room was empty, until the rain turned into silence again.
Then I checked the mirror in the bathroom.
The woman staring back at me was bruised. Thin. Her eyes were full of something that didn't match the story I'd been told.
And on the inside of my left wrist—beneath the hospital band—was a small tattoo.
A number.
0473.
I didn't know what it meant.
But I knew one thing:
The truth wasn't what I was being told.
And I wasn't just lost.
I was being hunted.