Blood.
Thick on his tongue. Sour underneath. His lips were split. His stomach curled.
The ceiling was wrong. Wood paneling, lined with recessed lights. Clean. Ornate. Foreign.
He blinked, vision lagging. Light smeared across his pupils. The taste in his mouth was rancid. Alcohol and vomit. He hadn't eaten.
This wasn't the hotel.
No familiar heat. No screaming. No adrenaline pulsing through his veins. No gun. No victims on the floor. Just this waxed floor, paper, old liquor, and a temporary silence.
A desk loomed a few feet away. Carved oak. Overdesigned. Papers scattered. A crystal glass on its side, surrounded by a dark stain. Half the puddle was booze. The other half might not be.
Someone was yelling.
"Reid? Master Reid! Are you in there?"
The voice wasn't familiar. Not the tone, not the name. He didn't answer.
A second voice joined it. Firmer. Shorter sentences. Different weight.
A sharp thud hit the door.
Then again. Louder.
He shifted. His legs bent, but the strength wasn't there. Muscles twitched, then failed. The movement ended in a wheeze and a sharp pain in his ribs. Not broken. Just untrained. This body wasn't his.
The door buckled inward on the third hit.
He didn't get up. Didn't reach for anything. Couldn't.
The door opened with a crack and a burst of debris. A tall man entered first, suit pressed, posture high-alert. His eyes scanned the room. Tactical.
An older man followed. Emotional. His face bent into concern before he even saw the floor.
They rushed him.
The older one knelt, putting a hand on his cheek, then his neck. Quick. Familiar.
Reid flinched. The instinct was there, but the response wasn't. He couldn't lift his arms.
The tall man stood back, watching everything, saying nothing.
A name floated up. It didn't feel earned. But it was right.
Charles.
Another flicker. The standing man. Evaluating the room like it was a battlefield.
Connor.
He didn't know them. But he knew of them. Somewhere in the haze of memory, their names connected to this place. This identity. This body.
Pain hit him again. Fast. Blinding.
No scream came out, just a breath. Sharp, short, ragged. The pressure swelled until it stole everything.
Names. Light. Breath.
Gone.
The quiet wasn't hostile. It was calm and clinical.
Filtered sunlight pressed faintly through the sheer curtain beside the bed, scattering pale shapes across the tile. The air was cool. Manufactured. Fresh in the way that meant money. Not wilderness. Not freedom. A curated sterility.
Reid lay still beneath the weightless sheet, eyes closed, limbs loose, face slack.
This was not the hotel. Not the desert. Not death.
His breath came slow and even. No pain in his ribs now. No pressure behind his eyes. The migraine that tore through his skull yesterday had passed, leaving behind only questions and the dull fog of unfamiliarity.
The body was quiet, but wrong. Its shape, its condition, its presence — all soft at the edges.
He moved one finger, then another. No tremor. No hesitation. Just weakness where there should have been efficiency. The muscles were there but underdeveloped. The joints lacked tension. This was not a body trained for violence. It was an inheritance. Decorated. Maintained. Not tested.
Still, it was young. Healthy. And most importantly, his now.
He opened his eyes slowly.
The light didn't sting. That was new. His nerves were adjusting — accepting that he was alive, even if he hadn't earned it.
The ceiling above him was cream stone, edged with decorative trim. Nothing aggressive. Designed to soothe.
He turned his head toward the movement he sensed near the bed.
An older man sat in a chair beside him. Dressed in a tailored vest and collared shirt. Hands folded in his lap. Composed, but tired. He looked like someone who had been waiting in silence for a long time. Not out of duty, but something deeper.
They made eye contact.
The man stood immediately, controlled but clearly relieved.
"You scared me, Master Reid."
Reid didn't respond.
He watched the man's posture, his distance, his tone. The words were measured. Familiar. Not staged. This wasn't a stranger. This was someone invested. A piece of the estate, a piece of the family.
The name surfaced without emotion — Charles. Butler. Loyal. Possibly one of the few constants in the family history. Not to be loved, but understood. And kept close.
"You've been unconscious since yesterday afternoon," Charles continued. "The physician said it was the combination of stress and excessive drinking. Nothing lasting, but..." He hesitated. "But perhaps a sign to slow down."
Reid gave no answer. No twitch. Just the faint narrowing of his gaze.
Charles took it as acknowledgment.
"I'll inform the kitchen to prepare something light," he added, already turning toward the door.
He left without waiting for permission. That, too, was telling.
When the door clicked shut, Reid turned his eyes back to the ceiling.
He tested his breathing again. Smooth. Controlled. Heart rate steady. Reflexes responding.
His thoughts were quiet now, aligned. No panic. No noise.
This wasn't the old life — cluttered with assignments, contacts, and exit plans. This life was built on marble and silence. His old enemies weren't waiting outside the door but the new ones were sipping cocktails in resorts and country clubs.
And for the first time in years, there was no gun under the pillow.
Just space. Options. And the knowledge of a dead man at his disposal.
Reid exhaled once through his nose, then sat up.
The room tilted for a breath, then settled.
He didn't smile. There was nothing to smile about.
But he was ready to move.