August blinks against the cold, his breath sharp in the night air. The wind howls, kicking up sand, stinging his skin. The stars overhead are too bright, too scattered across the endless dark. His head pounds, his limbs heavy as he pushes himself up from the ground.
He frowns.
He was just… where? Kabul? No, no, that's not right. His fingers dig into the frozen earth beneath him, and his pulse kicks up. The last thing he remembers is—home? A rundown safe house? But why is he here, in the middle of a desert? At night? He scans the horizon, his heartbeat pounding in his skull. He wonders why there are bodies laid around him, clearly dead by his hands.
Something shifts behind him, the crunching of sand. A figure, moving toward him.
"August?"
The voice is familiar, but his mind resists. He turns sharply, muscles tensing—his body knows how to react even if his brain doesn't. His eyes lock onto the girl standing by a bullet-ridden car, a pistol in her shaking hands.
His stomach twists.
"Who the hell are you?" he rasps, his pistol aimed at Layla.
The pain in his head pulses, and he instinctively grips the pistol tighter, pointing it at her.
She takes a hesitant step back, her wide eyes reflecting fear. "I-I'm Layla. Don't you remember?"
His brow furrows, but he can't recall any of it. "Layla…" He scans his surroundings, taking in the desolate landscape under the dark sky, the remnants of the car, and the blood pooling beneath him.
"Why am I here?" he mutters to himself, piecing together fragments of thought. "Desert. Night. Gunfire. You… you know my name. But how?" He shifts his gaze back to her, the realization dawning. "You're here because you're in danger." His mind races, sifting through the chaos as he struggles to make sense of his situation. "You have information about me—something I don't remember. I need to understand." He takes a shaky breath, lowering his firearm. "You're not an enemy… At least, I don't think so."
Layla's hands tremble as she raises them slowly, trying to appear non-threatening. "I'm here to help you, August. Please, you got shot in the head."
Another realization. He feels the lingering ache of his head and looks at the bullet in front of him, the blood evaporating away as his body can no longer sustain it.
"Brain damage. Shit." August puts the pieces together, the scenario most likely to lead to their current situation.
Layla steps forward, hesitant at first, then faster, until she's right in front of him. Before August can react, she wraps her arms around him, holding him tightly.
His body stiffens. The warmth of her, the way she clings to him—it's… familiar. Too familiar.
"Like my mother." The thought crashes into August—unbidden, unwelcome. His stomach churns. His mother is dead. He's known that for years, even through the haze of missing memories.
His jaw tightens, and he shoves the thought away, burying it before it can take root. This isn't her.
"This is—" He hesitates. He doesn't know who she is. But she's holding him like she does.
His arms remain at his sides, fingers twitching slightly. He should push her away. Demand answers. Keep his distance until he understands what's happening.
But he doesn't.
Because for all the gaps in his memory, his instincts tell him one thing:
Right now, he's lost. And she's the only tether he has.
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August sits in the passenger seat of the soldier's car, staring blankly at the dashboard. His fingers tap against his knee, a restless habit he doesn't remember picking up. His head still throbs, his thoughts sluggish and disjointed.
The cold leather seat beneath him feels unfamiliar, yet not uncomfortable. He glances at the cracked side mirror, catching a glimpse of himself—blood dried in streaks down his face, a bullet hole still knitting itself shut. His own reflection feels foreign.
He exhales sharply, shaking his errants thoughts away. He needs to focus.
Outside, the girl—Layla, she said her name was—moves quickly between the two vehicles, hauling bags from the bullet-riddled car into this one. August watches her in silence, piecing things together. "That car ran out of gas. Stolen, most likely. That would explain why we were stranded."
Layla works with a quiet urgency, her movements tense but efficient.
"She knows what she's doing. She's done this before." Another piece of the puzzle clicks into place. "She's not just some lost civilian. She's been surviving. Traveling with me. But why?"
His head pounds as he digs through fractured memories, finding nothing but fog.
August doesn't know why he feels sad.