I open my eyes to a white emptiness that weighs down on me like a heavy fog.
My head throbs like a broken drum, and a fresh wound burns—an unfinished scar.
I don't know where I am… or who I am.
I raise a trembling hand and touch my face—my forehead, my hair, still sticky with dried blood.
Something hit me… a weapon, maybe.
But I can't remember. I can't remember anything.
I sit up, leaning against the wall, breathing hard.
I'm wearing dark black clothes.
Not pajamas, not something casual… more like the outfit of someone lying in wait.
As if I were hiding.
Or hunting.
But… hunting who?
And who am I?
I exhale slowly and lift my weary gaze.
My eyes refuse the light, yet they catch a glimpse of something near the open window—
My glasses.
…Finally, the room comes into focus.
A shattered phone lies nearby—completely dead.
"I said…" I whisper to no one.
Across the wall, drawings of a girl.
Her face looks innocent—too innocent.
But around her, countless scattered papers are covered in frantic black lines—scribbles, tangled words, chess moves drawn in chaos.
I stare at them.
Even though my mind is empty—like a desert without water—
something deep inside me stirs, glowing faintly.
Chess.
It's a game I know…
I know it too well. So well it feels carved into my very spine.
I try to analyze one of the chess games sketched on the wall, but soon I frown.
"These moves are terrible… mistakes that even a beginner wouldn't make."
They can't be mine.
It's as if someone's trying to imitate my style—
or… mock me.
I run my trembling fingers along the wall and let out a bitter smile.
My memory is dead… but chess remains.
How ironic.
I close my eyes for a moment, and inside my mind, I see an endless chessboard…
The pieces move on their own,
while I search for myself among them.
I sit at the edge of the bed, my fingers brushing against my empty head—
no name,
no past,
nothing but silence.
I search the room as if digging through the basement of my own memory.
No trace of who I am.
No photos, no papers—
not even a single bandage to cover my wound.
There's some blood on the table.
Maybe there was a fight…
between me and someone else.
The only thing I find… is a card.
Vincent Marlow.
Psychiatrist.
A phone number printed beneath the name.
I let out a bitter laugh.
A psychiatrist? How ironic.
Maybe I was one of his profitable patients…
Next to the card lies a half-empty bottle of pills.
I walk toward the fridge and open it carefully,
as if it's hiding a great secret.
A bit of food.
A bottle of milk, still good for one more day.
The date is clear: 08.08.2025.
At least I've found one thing I can trust.
(He drinks the milk)
"I want to wash my face."
I walk to the sink and turn the faucet.
Nothing.
Just a hollow whistle echoing back at me.
Then, among the trash, something blue catches my eye.
A notebook — its cover painted with Van Gogh's Almond Blossom.
Why do I remember that name…
but not my own?
What kind of cruel joke is this?
On the first page of the notebook,
a drawing—
a girl sitting before a chessboard.
On the table beside her, a paper filled with random moves,
many of them crossed out or torn apart.
Some moves repeat themselves.
It's chaos.
Torn pages, scattered letters, meaningless chess moves.
And yet…
amid all this ruin,
something whispers to me—
that behind this chaos lies a pattern,
a logic not as foolish as it seems.
I set the notebook aside.
The pain in my head grows stronger—
the pulse at my wound beats like a drum.
If I don't treat myself soon…
I might lose what's left of my sanity.
I move closer to the window.
Third floor.
The ground below looks far enough to break my neck,
yet close enough to make jumping feel like an option.
No… not yet.
Another thought crawls into my mind:
maybe I should step outside—
ask one of the neighbors who I am.
I let out a faint, bitter smile.
"Brilliant. A man with no memory, bleeding from the head,
knocking on doors and asking,
'Do you know who I am?'
Yes, that would look perfectly normal."
And yet…
the situation is worse than I thought.
I'm bleeding slowly.
No water. No medicine.
"I have to get out..."
I fumble my clothes automatically.
My hand touches something metallic in the pocket — a key.
…The room key was with me the whole time!
Am I the victim here, then?
All I know is I'm the one who was attacked.
But now I realize I'm in a locked-room crime.
Or the other explanation: someone else has another copy of the key.
I step back.
The silence in the room is heavy, as if it's waiting for a confession from me.
(He opens the door with the key.)
There's a room directly opposite mine.
Number 33.
If the room across from me is 33, then my room is…!!!!?
34… or 35.
What's wrong with the person who scribbled out the room number like that…?
I don't know what's wrong with me, but the moment I stepped out my hands started shaking.
I move forward, step by step.
(fog, headache)
My head aches.
Stop, please.
Don't kill her.
...