Chapter 1 – The Woman in thThe night was a blur of rain and fear.
Cold water hammered against her skin, soaking through the thin dress that clung to her trembling body. Streetlights bled into one another, turning the world into streaks of gold and gray.
She didn't know where she was.
She didn't know who she was.
All she knew was that she had to run.
Her bare feet slapped against the pavement. Her breath came in sharp, shallow gasps. The city roared around her — horns blaring, tires hissing, thunder cracking overhead like a warning.
A voice echoed somewhere behind her.
"Amara! Stop!"
The name hit her like a bullet.
Amara.
Was that her?
Her mind tried to grab onto the sound, but it slipped away — like smoke between her fingers. Every time she reached for a memory, pain stabbed behind her eyes.
Flashes.
A hand gripping hers.
A gun.
Blood.
She stumbled into an alley, crashing into a wall slick with rain. Her lungs burned. Her knees scraped against concrete.
Somewhere, headlights flared. A car screeched to a halt at the alley's mouth.
She turned.
A man stepped out — tall, dark coat clinging to him, eyes sharp even through the blur of rain. He shouted something she couldn't hear over the thunder.
Her pulse spiked.
Run.
She pushed off the wall, running deeper into the alley, deeper into the dark.
A dog barked. Someone yelled. Her heart slammed against her ribs as if trying to escape.
The world tilted — a flash of white light, the echo of her name again — louder, closer.
"Amara!"
Then—
A gunshot.
Pain exploded through her head. Her knees gave way. She crumpled into the mud, vision collapsing into darkness.
And in that last breath before the world faded, she whispered the only word she remembered.
"Leon…"
---
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The sound dragged her back.
She opened her eyes to light — harsh, sterile, blinding.
A hospital ceiling. White tiles. The steady rhythm of a heart monitor keeping time with the ache in her skull.
She tried to move, but metal clinked.
Her wrists — cuffed to the bed.
Panic surged.
She jerked her arms, metal cutting into skin. A voice from somewhere nearby said, "She's awake."
Footsteps approached. Two officers stood by the door, their expressions cold, guarded.
A nurse appeared at her side, clipboard in hand, tone professional but uneasy.
"Miss Cole, please relax."
She froze.
Miss Cole.
"Who's that?" she whispered.
The nurse blinked. "You don't remember?"
Her voice trembled. "Should I?"
The nurse exchanged a look with one of the officers — the kind of look people share when they're standing next to a ghost.
Outside the room, voices murmured. She caught fragments:
"…the traitor…"
"…two years missing…"
"…corporate espionage…"
"…dangerous woman…"
Each word cut deeper than the last.
Her breathing quickened. "What are they talking about? I don't—"
The door opened.
A man stepped in.
He wore a dark suit — the kind that looked more like armor than clothing. His hair was damp, his jaw sharp, his presence quiet but commanding.
The officers straightened as if gravity had just changed direction.
He didn't look at them.
He looked at her.
Something inside her twisted. Recognition — deep, instinctive — mixed with fear.
He walked closer, slow, deliberate. His voice was low, controlled, too calm for the tension in the air.
"Welcome back, Amara."
Her pulse raced. "Do I… know you?"
He studied her for a moment. His eyes — gray, unreadable — flicked over her face like he was memorizing every scar, every twitch.
"You used to."
She swallowed hard. "Who are you?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a folded photograph. He set it on the table beside her handcuffs.
It was a picture of her — smiling. Standing beside him.
Her breath caught.
Same face. Same eyes. Same scar near her jawline.
But she didn't remember that smile. She didn't remember him.
"We worked together," he said finally. "Once upon a time."
She tried to process the words. "Then why am I cuffed to a bed?"
His gaze hardened. "Because the last time I trusted you, three people ended up dead."
The room felt smaller suddenly.
Her throat dried up. "That's not— I didn't—"
"Remember?" His tone sharpened, slicing through her stammer. "You don't remember, right?"
She flinched.
He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. "That's convenient."
Silence stretched between them. The monitor's beeping filled it, loud and accusing.
Finally, she whispered, "I don't even know who I am."
His expression flickered — just for a second — something raw, something human. Then it was gone.
"You're Amara Cole," he said coldly. "Prime suspect in a double homicide and the disappearance of half a billion in stolen data."
Her stomach turned.
That couldn't be real. That couldn't be her.
"You're lying," she breathed.
He tilted his head slightly. "Maybe. Or maybe you are."
He straightened, slipping the photo back into his pocket. "You'll be transferred to the city precinct when the doctors clear you."
She watched him walk toward the door. Every cell in her body screamed that he was more than a detective. That there was something he wasn't saying. Something he didn't want her to remember.
"Wait!"
He paused, hand on the doorframe.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. "You said you knew me. Then tell me— before I wake up in another nightmare— what was I to you?"
He turned his head just enough for her to see the flicker in his eyes.
"You were the best thing that ever happened to me," he said softly.
"And the worst mistake I ever made."
The door shut behind him.
The monitor beeped faster, echoing the pounding of her heart.
She stared at the empty doorway, a thousand questions clawing at her mind — all trapped behind the walls of her missing memory.
Outside, thunder rolled again.
And somewhere, buried deep in her fractured mind, the name Leon whispered back — a ghost, a warning, and a promise.