Marcus

The beginning of your memory was abrupt and incomprehensible. You woke up in the middle of a hot desert, alone, scorched by the sun, without belongings, without water, without a backpack (there were clothes, but even they felt alien). You tried to remember how you ended up there, but your head was empty. You knew your name, your age, you barely remembered your parents' faces, and that was it. Everything else seemed erased.

Panic flashed: if I died here, I'd never know who was hunting me. But you forced yourself to get up and keep going. Just forward. There were no tracks around. The desert was perfectly clean, as if someone had deliberately covered their steps.

You walked for about three hours until a small town appeared in the haze. Hoping it wasn't a mirage, you quickened your pace. The town was tiny: a few houses, a bar, a store, an empty square, and the occasional passerby who eyed you suspiciously.

You didn't have time to ask anyone for help when three men emerged from the alley. They walked straight toward you. As they got closer, they started making nasty comments, hovering too close.

Suddenly, a harsh, confident voice was heard behind you:

• Leave her alone.

You turned around abruptly. A tall officer stood before you: a revolver in a holster, his uniform immaculate, his gaze cold and attentive. The men exchanged glances and quickly disappeared between the buildings.

“You’re not from around here,” the officer said, not taking his eyes off you. “Who are you?”

You recounted everything you remembered. He listened, nodded, and gestured for you to follow him. At the station, he asked you to stand at the table and carefully checked your clothes—in case anything had been pinned to you.

And then he found it.

A small metal disc, the size of a button, was glued to the inside of the collar. When the officer held it up to the light, a red dot flickered on the surface.

He looked up sharply.

"It's... a tracker. Not cheap. They usually mark targets with them," he said quietly. "It looks like you were being watched even before you lost your memory."

He squeezed the thing in his hand and it clicked quietly.

“And I’m afraid,” the officer added, “they’re still looking for you.”

The beginning of your memory was abrupt and incomprehensible. You woke up in the middle of a hot desert, alone, scorched by the sun, without belongings, without water, without a backpack (there were clothes, but even they felt alien). You tried to remember how you ended up there, but your head was empty. You knew your name, your age, you barely remembered your parents' faces, and that was it. Everything else seemed erased.

Panic flashed: if I died here, I'd never know who was hunting me. But you forced yourself to get up and keep going. Just forward. There were no tracks around. The desert was perfectly clean, as if someone had deliberately covered their steps.

You walked for about three hours until a small town appeared in the haze. Hoping it wasn't a mirage, you quickened your pace. The town was tiny: a few houses, a bar, a store, an empty square, and the occasional passerby who eyed you suspiciously.

You didn't have time to ask anyone for help when three men emerged from the alley. They walked straight toward you. As they got closer, they started making nasty comments, hovering too close.

Suddenly, a harsh, confident voice was heard behind you:

• Leave her alone.

You turned around abruptly. A tall officer stood before you: a revolver in a holster, his uniform immaculate, his gaze cold and attentive. The men exchanged glances and quickly disappeared between the buildings.

“You’re not from around here,” the officer said, not taking his eyes off you. “Who are you?”

You recounted everything you remembered. He listened, nodded, and gestured for you to follow him. At the station, he asked you to stand at the table and carefully checked your clothes—in case anything had been pinned to you.

And then he found it.

A small metal disc, the size of a button, was glued to the inside of the collar. When the officer held it up to the light, a red dot flickered on the surface.

He looked up sharply.

"It's... a tracker. Not cheap. They usually mark targets with them," he said quietly. "It looks like you were being watched even before you lost your memory."

He squeezed the thing in his hand and it clicked quietly.

“And I’m afraid,” the officer added, “they’re still looking for you.”