Chapter One: Blood and Smoke
When I opened my eyes, there were two bodies on the motel floor, a smoking gun in my hand, and no memory of how I got here.
The acrid bite of cordite lingered in the air, mingling with the copper stink of blood. One body lay sprawled near the kitchenette — a man in a crumpled grey suit, mouth agape, eyes wide with final surprise. The other was slumped against the wall by the bathroom, a woman. Blonde. Mid-thirties maybe. A smear of red painted the tiles behind her head like an unfinished mural.
I was kneeling between them.
My hands trembled. The pistol — matte black, no serial — rested loose in my grip, as if it had grown there, an extension of bone and sinew. The weight felt familiar. That was the worst part. Muscle memory gripped tighter than fear.
The room was cheap: nicotine-stained walls, flickering overhead light, and the kind of floral bedspread that hadn't been fashionable since the 80s. The TV murmured static in the background, and somewhere outside, a dog barked once and fell silent.
No sirens. Yet.
I checked myself first. Black jeans, black boots, dark T-shirt damp with sweat. No obvious injuries, but my heart was jackhammering. There was something tight around my ribs — not pain, just pressure. Like the aftershock of something worse.
I forced myself to stand. The gun came with me.
There was a wallet on the dresser. Mine, maybe. Inside: three crisp hundred-dollar bills, a keycard for Room 12 (I was in Room 12), and a small photo. A child, maybe five. Smiling. Blonde hair. Blue eyes.
In the back of the wallet was a fake ID, with a name I didn’t recognise.
Micah Rourke.
Maybe it was mine. Maybe it was just a mask.
The mirror above the dresser gave me my first look at myself.
I stared.
Dark stubble, short black hair, a faint scar slicing through my left eyebrow. My eyes were the hardest part — grey, cold, unreadable. Like a stranger staring back at me through a window. A handsome stranger, maybe, but one I wouldn’t trust alone in a room.
A flash — too quick to catch — danced across my mind. A voice? A scream? A flash of silver light?
Gone.
I tucked the gun into the waistband of my jeans and turned to the woman on the floor. There was a wallet near her outstretched hand. I crouched and opened it. Detective Lena Hart. NYPD. Her badge was clipped to the flap. Her photo matched the face, though hers was smiling in the ID.
The man in the suit had a holster under his jacket — empty now. His wallet said he was Agent Paul Dwyer, Department of Homeland Security. That made things worse.
I looked at them both. Dead. Shot clean. Double taps to the chest.
Professional.
I felt sick. My stomach knotted and a cold sweat broke across my back. Did I do this?
The TV snapped to life behind me. No one touched the remote.
“—we interrupt this program for a breaking news alert,” said a voice. Female. Calm. “Authorities are searching for a man believed to be armed and extremely dangerous. Suspect is described as—”
The screen fuzzed. Glitched. Froze.
Then flickered back to static.
I was already moving. I grabbed a duffel bag from under the bed — standard black canvas. It was packed. Clothes. Burner phone. A notebook filled with what looked like coded gibberish. Three spare magazines for the pistol. A folding knife. No passport. No name.
Just one item wrapped in cloth — a black rectangle, maybe a hard drive?
A loud knock at the door.
I froze.
Another knock. Heavier. “Room service,” came a man’s voice.
I didn’t breathe. I checked the window. Cracked open. Just wide enough.
Knock knock knock.
“Last chance,” the voice said, no longer pretending.
I slung the bag over my shoulder, yanked the window fully open, and vaulted out just as the door exploded inward behind me.
A flash. A shout. Gunfire. Splinters bit into my arm as I rolled into the alley behind the motel and bolted into the shadows.
I didn’t stop running until my lungs were on fire and the bag weighed a hundred kilos on my back.
Eventually, I found shelter behind a dumpster in an alley three blocks down. I slumped, panting, dizzy, heart hammering. My fingers were still twitching.
Who the hell was I?
My hands said soldier. The room said killer. The woman’s badge said cop. And that duffel bag said I’d planned this — or at least, planned to disappear after something.
But the burning behind my eyes, the yawning emptiness where my name should’ve been — that wasn’t planned. That was wiped.
I pulled out the burner phone. No lock code. One number in the call log. No name. Just a time stamp. It had called me thirteen minutes before I woke up.
I stared at it.
I tapped Call.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then a click.
A voice answered.
“You shouldn’t be alive.”
Click.
Silence.