I awoke. I could hear nothing and see nothing.

My head throbbed as my panicked heart pulsed. My wrists were tied behind my back. I was sitting in an uncomfortable chair, possibly metal. The only source of sound was my own struggle.

I knew nothing about myself. Amnesia. I have my headache to thank for that.

I felt powerless, nearly deprived of all strength.

Within a few moments of waking up, I drifted off to sleep again. A sudden noise jolted me from my slumber. I heard light footsteps, then the shutting of a door.

Awaiting a voice to speak, my heart raced, afraid of who my captor was and why they had captured me.

A faint glow bled into the darkness—so dim I thought at first it was a trick of my aching mind. But no, it pulsed softly, like a dying ember, somewhere beyond the black veil covering my eyes.

I tried to speak. My throat scraped like sandpaper, producing only a hoarse croak. The footsteps stopped. A presence lingered just out of reach. I felt it more than heard it: the subtle shift of air, the warmth of someone standing close enough that their breath might have brushed my skin if they leaned in.

My pulse hammered. I tugged at the restraints again, uselessly. The chair groaned beneath me.

Then—fingers. Light, deliberate, brushing the side of my face. I flinched, but the hand didn’t withdraw. It traced the line of my jaw as though confirming something. As though comparing me to something.

“You’re awake,” a voice murmured at last.

It was soft. Too soft.

I swallowed, forcing out a single word. “Why?”

The hand paused. A faint exhale—almost a laugh, but not quite.

“You’ll remember soon enough.”

Remember. The word struck something deep inside me, a submerged shape shifting beneath murky water. I tried to grasp it, but it slipped away, leaving only the headache’s dull roar.

The blindfold loosened. Light stabbed my eyes, and I recoiled, blinking rapidly as the world swam into view. A small room. Concrete walls. A single bulb dangling from the ceiling, flickering like it was afraid of the dark too. And in front of me—A figure wearing a mask. Smooth, featureless, like a blank face waiting to be written on.

They tilted their head, studying me with an unreadable stillness.

“You’ve been gone a long time,” they said. “Longer than you think.”

My mouth went dry. “Gone from where?”

The masked figure stepped back.

“You don’t remember your name,” they said. “You don’t remember mine. But you will. And when you do…” They let the sentence trail off, letting my imagination fill the void.

I wished they had finished it.

The bulb flickered again, plunging the room into momentary darkness. When the light returned, the figure was already walking toward the door.

“Wait!” I shouted, the word tearing from me with more desperation than I intended.

They paused with their hand on the handle.

“Rest,” they said without turning. “Your mind is fragile. We can’t afford another break.”

Another break.

The door shut with a soft click, far too gentle for the terror it left behind.