Newt

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to shake off the last vestiges of the haze. You're in the elevator. So, it worked. The crazy, desperate plan worked.

You were roughly pulled outside. Your legs buckled, and you almost collapsed onto the stone slabs, but strong hands caught you. You raised your head. And froze.

Newt. The one you secretly met in the sterile corridors of VICE. The one whose hands gripped so tightly, as if afraid to let go, when your father's men came for him.

Now he looked at you like a stranger. Like just another test subject.

"—How are you?" His voice was flat, devoid of the familiar warmth. He took a step forward; his famous limp, the cause of which you knew and which now tore your heart apart, was barely noticeable. "—What's your name?"

Your name. He asked for your name. The one who whispered it in your ear under the dim light of monitor screens.

Father erased his memories. He erased them just as thoroughly as everyone else's. You were alone. Completely alone in this nightmare with your pain and your truth.

The self-preservation instinct, honed by years of living under Jenson's wing, kicked in faster than despair.

"—I... I don't remember," your voice sounded hoarse and unfamiliar. "I don't remember anything."

"It's okay. It's normal. Everyone here has been through this. My name is Newt. Welcome to the Glade."