(Aria's POV)
The memory-wiping spell tears through my mind like acid, but somewhere deep in my core, something fights back. My shadow magic, dormant but not yet dead, suddenly erupts in desperate rebellion.
"No!" The word rips from my throat as darkness explodes outward from my body.
The enchanted chains shatter like glass. Elena stumbles backward, her perfect composure cracking as shadows pour from every corner of the basement, responding to my rage.
"Impossible," she breathes. "The restraints..."
I rise to my feet, power coursing through me like liquid fire. The spell is still working—I can feel memories dissolving at the edges of my consciousness—but my magic gives me one final moment of clarity.
This isn't punishment. This is erasure.
Elena recovers quickly, raising her hands to weave another binding spell. "Tony! Victoria! Now!"
But I'm already moving, my body flowing into shadow form just as blood magic crashes against the space where I stood. The basement walls can't contain me—I slip through stone and steel like smoke, following the darkness up through the compound's foundations.
"Find her!" Elena's scream echoes from below. "She can't have gone far!"
I materialize in the main hallway, my legs shaking with exhaustion. The spell is eating away at my power, using my own magic as fuel.
Footsteps thunder from three directions. Castellano enforcers, moving with military precision. I duck into an alcove as James rounds the corner, a silver knife gleaming in his hand.
"Aria!" His voice carries false concern. "Come back, cousin. Elena just wants to help you."
Help. The word tastes like poison. I slip past him through the darkness, heading for the compound's outer wall.
The gardens are crawling with guards. Searchlights sweep back and forth, cutting through shadow with ruthless efficiency. My power flickers like a dying candle—I have maybe one more shadow-walk left in me.
"Movement in sector three!"
A guard raises his rifle, and I throw myself sideways, rolling behind a marble fountain. Bullets chip stone inches from my head.
"Don't kill her, you idiots!" Elena's voice carries across the grounds. "I need her alive!"
Not for long, I think grimly. The spell is accelerating. I can feel chunks of memory crumbling away—faces, names, years of training dissolving into silver static.
I close my eyes and reach for the deepest shadows, the ones that run beneath Chicago's streets like veins. One last time. One final escape.
The darkness welcomes me like an old friend, and I sink into it just as more gunfire erupts behind me.
I emerge three blocks away, stumbling onto rain-soaked pavement. The effort nearly kills me—my shadow abilities sputter and die like a broken engine. No more magic. No more supernatural speed or strength.
Just a woman with a head full of dissolving memories, bleeding from psychic trauma.
I start walking, not knowing where I'm going. The city blurs around me, streetlights becoming streaks of light. I remember my name, then forget it. Remember Elena's face, then it dissolves into silver mist.
Dante. The name surfaces for a moment, connected to something important. Dark eyes. Understanding. A choice that cost me everything.
Then that's gone too.
Rain soaks through my clothes as I stumble down an alley. My legs give out near a dumpster, and I collapse onto wet concrete, shivering. Everything hurts—my head, my chest, my hands. The pain is sharp and real, but I can't remember why.
Footsteps splash through puddles nearby. I look up, squinting through the rain.
"Jesus Christ." A man's voice, rough with age and concern. "Hey, miss? You okay?"
An older black man crouches beside me, his brown eyes kind behind wire-rimmed glasses. He's wearing a cardigan despite the weather, and something about his gentle expression makes me want to cry.
"I'm..." I try to speak, but the words feel foreign in my mouth. "I think I'm lost."
"Easy, sweetheart." He keeps his hands visible, his voice soothing. "My name's Thomas. Thomas Grant. What's yours?"
I open my mouth to answer, then stop. The question hangs in the air like something I should know but don't. It's like reaching for a light switch in the dark and finding empty wall.
"I..." My voice cracks. "I don't know. I can't remember."
Thomas's face creases with worry. "You hurt? You bleeding?"
I touch my nose and my fingers come away red. The sight startles me—when did that happen? "I think so. My head really hurts."
"Okay, we need to get you somewhere dry. Can you walk?"
I try to stand and nearly fall over. My legs feel like jelly, and there's a strange ringing in my ears. Thomas catches my arm, steadying me.
"Whoa there. Take it slow."
His grip is firm but careful, like he's done this before. "My apartment's just around the corner. We'll get you warmed up, maybe call someone?"
"Call who?" The question slips out before I can stop it. "I don't... I don't think I have anyone to call."
Thomas pauses, studying my face. "Well, let's start with getting you dry first. Everything else can wait."
His apartment is small and cozy, filled with the kind of warmth that comes from years of being lived in. The walls are covered with photographs—children's faces, graduation ceremonies, families embracing. There's a sense of safety here that I didn't know I needed.
"Sit anywhere," Thomas says, disappearing into what looks like a bedroom. "Let me grab you some dry clothes."
I perch carefully on the edge of his couch, afraid to drip on the worn fabric. My reflection catches in a dark window, a stranger with hollow eyes and wet hair plastered to her skull. I stare at her, hoping something will click into place.
Nothing does.
Thomas returns with a towel and an oversized sweater. "Bathroom's down the hall if you want to clean up. Take your time."
"Thank you." The words feel inadequate. "I don't understand why you're helping me. You don't even know me."
"Because you need help." He shrugs like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Been working with folks in crisis for thirty years. Retired from social work now, but old habits die hard."
Social work. That explains the photos, the gentle way he handles my confusion. "What if..." I hesitate, not sure how to voice the fear that's been growing in my chest. "What if there's something wrong with me? What if I did something bad?"
Thomas settles into an armchair across from me, his expression thoughtful. "Do you feel like you did something bad?"
I search inside myself for the answer. There's just... emptiness. A vast, echoing space where memories should be. "I don't feel anything. That's what scares me."
"Memory loss can be frightening," he says gently. "But it doesn't make you a bad person. Sometimes our minds protect us from things we're not ready to handle."
"But what if I have a family somewhere, worried sick about me?"
"Then we'll figure that out when you're ready. One step at a time." Thomas's voice carries the kind of patience that comes from years of helping people through their worst moments. "For now, go get cleaned up. Tomorrow we can start making some calls, see if anyone's reported you missing."
I stand on unsteady legs and head for the bathroom. The mirror shows a face I don't recognize—pale, exhausted, lost. I raise one hand to touch the glass, studying the trembling fingers.
Who was I before tonight? A teacher? A student? Someone's daughter, sister, friend? The absence of answers is almost physical, like a hole in my chest.
But as I stare at my reflection, something unexpected surfaces through the fear and confusion.
Hope.
I don't know who I was, but maybe that means I get to choose who I become.