The first thing he felt was heat.
Not a gentle warmth, but a fierce, relentless blaze that crept over his skin, threatening to engulf him in flames.
When he opened his eyes, he found himself in a room illuminated by the fiery orange glow of flames. Shadows danced on the walls, flickering as if they were alive. The smoke hung in the air, thick and acrid.
He attempted to sit up, but a sharp pain erupted in his ribs. His hands trembled as he struggled to push himself off the wooden floor. He noticed blood staining his shirt; some of it was his, but not all.
For what felt like an eternity, he listened.
There was a faint crackling sound, the howling of wind outside, and the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat.
No voices, no footsteps.
A metallic taste lingered on his tongue, and his head throbbed painfully. The world around him spun slightly, as if gravity itself were uncertain.
He spotted a mirror on the wall, fractured down the middle, and dragged himself toward it.
The reflection that met him looked like a ghost wearing a human disguise.
Ash smeared across his jawline, and blood trickled from a gash above his eyebrow. His eyes were gray, hollow, and filled with confusion.
He didn't recognize the face staring back at him.
The eyes were foreign, the scar on his right cheek unknown.
Even the sound of his own whisper, "Who am I?" felt alien.
He scanned the room: a wooden table overturned, two broken chairs, and an empty whiskey bottle. By the fireplace, he noticed a small silver locket on the floor. He picked it up, wiped away the soot, and revealed a woman's face inside. She had dark hair, a gentle smile, and eyes that seemed to recognize him.
He waited for her name to come to mind, but nothing surfaced.
Suddenly, the silence shattered with a click.
The door swung open.
A man entered, his silhouette framed by the flames behind him. He wore a dark coat and held a gun low at his side. His voice was rough and gravelly.
"Boss. You're alive."
The word "Boss" struck him harder than the pain in his ribs.
His gaze darted from the gun to the man's trembling hand. "Who are you?"
The stranger's brow furrowed. "It's me. Rico. We thought you were gone. They said no one could have survived that explosion."
"I don't remember," he replied quietly.
Rico hesitated. "You don't remember… what?"
"Anything."
The gun lowered slightly, but not enough to ease the tension. Rico's eyes flicked to the fire and then back to him. "You're bleeding badly. We need to get you out before they find..."
Rico abruptly stopped, his eyes widening as if he had seen a ghost. "Boss," he whispered, voice trembling. "Behind you."
He turned around.
There was nothing there, just the flickering light and the cracked mirror.
But then he saw her, a faint outline of a woman standing near the flames. Her dress shimmered, almost ethereal. Her lips moved, forming a single word he couldn't hear, and then she vanished.
When he looked back, Rico's hand was shaking more violently. The gun was raised again.
"You saw her too," he said, feeling a chill run down his spine.
Rico remained silent, his jaw clenched. "I'm sorry. Orders are orders."
The shot came before he could think.
The bullet grazed his shoulder, and he fell behind the table, splinters flying above him. Something within him clicked, instinct, muscle memory, whatever it was felt strangely familiar. His hand found a knife hidden beneath the rubble. As Rico approached, he moved with a practiced grace. One step, a swift twist, and the knife plunged deep into Rico's chest.
Rico gasped for breath. "You still got it, Boss," he murmured, blood soaking his coat.
He didn't reply. He watched as life drained from Rico and then glanced down at his own shaking hands. They had been steady moments ago, steady when he had killed.
He knelt beside Rico, rifling through his pockets.
He found a lighter and a folded photograph of three men in suits standing by a black car. One of them was him.
He flipped the photo over. Scrawled on the back were two words: Find Elena.
He picked up the locket again. The woman's face seemed to watch him through the glass. "Are you Elena?" he asked softly.
No response came, only the crackling of flames consuming the remnants of the room.
His eyes fell on Rico's gun on the floor.
He picked it up, checked the magazine, and noted it was half full. His hands moved automatically, inspecting the safety and cleaning the barrel. He didn't need to remember how to use it, his body knew.
Outside, a cold wind rushed through the trees, and the night air was laced with the scents of rain and gasoline. A car sat parked in the distance, half concealed by darkness. Its headlights were shattered, but the keys dangled from the ignition.
He climbed inside. The seat felt familiar, as if it belonged to a past life.
When he turned the key, the engine groaned to life, the dashboard lights flickering to reveal a name burned into the leather steering wheel: Moretti.
He stared at it for a long moment, the sound of the idling engine filling the silence around him.
In the rearview mirror, the cabin blazed with fire. Flames engulfed the windows, erasing any trace of who he might have been.
He touched the bruise forming on his shoulder; the name felt foreign on his tongue.
"Moretti," he tested the name.
Then again, softer. "Who the hell am I?"
In the mirror, the ghostly image of the woman appeared once more, her mouth forming the same word as before.
Remember.
Then she vanished, swallowed by the flames.