He woke to the sound of breathing.
It took him a moment to realize it was his own.
Each inhale came short and uneven, as though his lungs had forgotten how to stretch. The air tasted wrong—sterile, metallic, with something sour lingering at the back of his throat.
Pain answered the moment he moved.
It bloomed behind his eyes—sudden, violent—like a light snapping on inside his skull. He groaned, the sound raw and unfamiliar.
My voice, he thought.
Then he froze.
The words didn’t feel like his. They felt borrowed, pulled from someone else’s mind and forced into his own. He opened his eyes.
Light flooded in. A ceiling hung above him—cracked, water-stained. Somewhere to his left, something dripped slowly. Time measured in droplets.
“Hello?” he croaked.
Silence answered.
He swallowed. “Is anyone—”
The sentence died halfway through.
Not from fear.
Because he didn’t know what he had been about to say.
He didn’t know anything.
He pushed himself up.
That was a mistake.
Pain surged deeper now—heavy, pulsing, alive. He cried out and collapsed back onto the thin mattress, springs pressing into his back.
His hand rose to his head—
Stopped.
Bandages. Thick. Tight.
He pressed lightly.
The world detonated behind his eyes, and he jerked his hand away.
“…gunshot,” he whispered.
The word surfaced without context. Not a memory—just a fact.
His pulse spiked—but panic didn’t follow. Just a tightening in his chest, like his body remembered fear even if he didn’t.
He lay still, listening to the drip. Counting breaths. Waiting for something to return.
Nothing did.
“Who am I?”
The words sounded small in the empty room.
No answer came.
For the first time, fear slipped through the cracks.
It took effort, but he forced himself upright. The room tilted, then steadied. He gripped the mattress until the dizziness passed.
“Okay… think.”
His hands were rough. Lined with faint scars and calluses. Hands that had worked.
Trained.
Survived.
Hands not unfamiliar with violence.
The idea unsettled him.
His gaze drifted to his left wrist. A pale scar circled it.
Something flickered—
—not an image, just a sensation.
Pressure. Strain.
A rope biting into skin, and then it was gone.
“Wait…”
Nothing.
Fear crept in, colder now.
He slid off the bed. His legs nearly failed him, but he caught himself against the wall. Paint peeled beneath his palm.
The room was small. Metal door. Boarded window. A chair.
And on it—
A black jacket. Heavy. Worn.
He stepped toward it, then stopped.
Another flicker.
Cold air rushing past his face.
Fast movement.
Footsteps behind him.
Someone hunting.
His vision blurred.
He grabbed his head. “Stop—” The sensation vanished.
He breathed hard.
“Not memories,” he muttered.
Memory showed you what happened.
Instinct told you what to do.
Somehow, only one remained. His fingers brushed a patch.
Artemis Response Team PMC.
He whispered. “Private military contractor.”
The knowledge landed cleanly.
Something clinked softly on the floor.
His breath caught as he crouched and picked it up.
A SIG-Sauer P229.
Cold.
Solid.
Familiar.
His grip settled into place too easily.
His stomach turned.
His hands knew exactly what to do, even if he didn’t.
“…was it mine?”
A darker thought followed.
Did I use it?
Footsteps echoed outside the door.
Slow. Measured. Closer.
His pulse hammered as he ejected the magazine.
Empty.
He pulled the slide back.
“One in the chamber,” he muttered.
The words chilled him.
The footsteps faded.
He exhaled and searched the jacket.
A pack of gum. A pass key.
In his pockets—pocketknife, paperclip, hair tie, a folded photograph.
He opened it.
A red-haired woman. Sharp eyes. Controlled expression.
On the back: Stacy.
“Lover?”
Nothing.
“Target?”
A chill settled in his gut.
Why did that feel more believable?
And that bothered him.
He paced once across the room, then made a decision.
Find the woman.
Get answers.
Then find a way out.
He straightened the paperclip and knelt by the door.
The metal knob reflected his face—hazel eyes staring back, unrecognizable.
His hands didn’t hesitate.
No testing.
No adjustment.
The lock clicked open like he’d done it a hundred times.
He stepped into the hallway and immediately turned left.
Then he stopped.
He hadn’t seen the corner yet.
“…lucky guess,” he muttered.
Then he caught his reflection in a glass panel.
A stranger stared back.
“Who were you?”
The layout of the place settled in his mind too easily.
Not memory.
It couldn’t be.
…right?
He moved forward—silent, controlled, and at the far end, a guard stood outside integration room.
Inside—
The woman from the photo.
Alive.
His stomach knotted.
Familiarity stirred.
He crushed it immediately.
The distance was wrong for a clean approach. Too exposed.
His stance adjusted—subtle, deliberate.
Compensating.
As if he already knew how it would unfold.
He moved before thinking.
Not reacting.
Executing a routine his body remembered even if his mind did not.
Silent.
Precise.
His arm locked under the guard’s chin—perfect angle, perfect pressure. The struggle was brief.
Finish it.
The thought came cold.
He hesitated—then loosened his grip. Just enough.
The man sagged, unconscious. Breathing. Alive.
He eased him down, unsettled.
His body had known exactly how to kill him.
And how close it had come to being easy.
He took the gun and two magazines from the guard’s belt and stepped inside.
The woman—Stacy—was strapped to a metal chair. Wrists bound. Ankles tight.
His chest tightened.
Recognition—without memory.
He pushed it aside.
She looked up, relief flashing through her composure.
“You look terrible. Which is good, because dead would’ve been worse.”
He didn’t answer. He scanned the room first—corners, exits, and angles. Clear.
His body relaxed slightly.
He didn’t remember deciding to check.
“Mateo?” she said. “Look at me.”
He did.
The face remained unfamiliar.
No history. No connection.
He squatted in front of her and stared into her eyes. Searching for something… anything.
Then a flicker. A word.
“What is it? Untie me, before they come back.”
He whispered, “Savage.”
Her expression tightened. “Really? Using call signs right now? It’s me.”
His stare did not waver.
“Fine, Crucible. Can you untie me now?”
He reached for the restraints.
His hands worked quickly, automatically. Buckles loosened under practiced fingers.
“What was that about,” she said, forcing lightness.
“I… don’t…” The words faltered.
Not confusion—absence.
The last restraint clicked free.
She surged forward and wrapped her arms around him.
His body froze.
Not because he wanted to push her away.
Because he felt absolutely nothing.
She pulled back and searched his face. “…Mateo?”
He stared at her.
Waiting.
Expecting something to happen.
Nothing did.
Her relief faded slightly.
“Say something.”
“Say what?”
She looked at him and, for the first time, uncertainty crossed her face.
“You know, for a second…” She swallowed. “I thought maybe this was some kind of test.”
“A test?”
“In case you thought I’d broke.” Her eyes narrowed. “Or maybe you were pretending.”
He met her stare evenly.
“I wish I was.”
She held his gaze a moment longer.
Looking.
Studying.
Measuring.
As if searching for the man she knew somewhere behind his eyes.
Finally, she took a step back.
“No,” she said quietly. “You aren’t pretending.”
“How can you tell?”
A faint shiver passed through her expression.
“Because the Mateo I knew would already have convinced me.”
Her gaze flicked to the bandages.
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not possible.”
“It is right now.”
She studied him, searching for a crack.
“You don’t remember the mission,” she said quietly.
Something in that irritated him as he shook his head.
She hesitated. “Us?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know me?”
He pulled out the photograph.
He studied her—posture, breathing, the way her eyes tracked his movements.
Trained.
Like him? Maybe.
“What am I to you?”
She hesitated. “…you were the one who didn’t fail.”
“That’s it?”
“It started that way.” A subtle shift in her tone. He noticed. Filed it away.
“An assignment or more?”
She met his eyes. “Both.”
He didn’t answer.
“You stayed,” she said.
He frowned. “Stayed where?”
“With me.”
A pause.
“…you don’t remember that either.”
He didn’t react.
“Mateo,” she said.
She studied him. “Reyes. You don’t even recognize that either, do you?”
Silence.
“…Artemis,” she added more carefully. “Does that mean anything?”
He watched her closely. Looking for lies.
“I’m a mercenary,” he said.
Something hardened in her expression. “You always reduce it to that.”
“What else would it be?”
She didn’t answer.
Choosing restraint instead.
That worried him more.
“Then we figure it out,” she said softly.
We.
Still empty. A distant alarm chimed.
“Later,” he said.
She then caught his wrist.
He reacted instantly—his grip tightening around hers.
“Trust me.”
He didn’t know who he was.
Didn’t know who she was.
Yet every surviving instinct he had agreed on one thing:
Trust her.
Somehow, that frightened him more than being hunted.