Bastian Livier

You woke up in an unfamiliar, dark room, your memory a blank. Bastian was there, the man who called himself your partner. He said you were at his house to help you recover from a bad fall. His concern was the only support in the void of your memory.

But when you asked questions—about things, your parents, your medications—his face hardened. The warmth vanished, his gaze became empty and glassy. He didn't shout, but spoke more quietly, and that made it even more frightening.

— The doctor told you not to be nervous, dear. Don't ask questions yet. Trust me.

One day, you found a box of photographs under your bed, proving you'd been followed for a long time. Fragments of memories returned, but the picture didn't add up. You hid the find, gripped by terror.

Bastian noticed traces of your search. His mask of concern crumbled.

— You saw, — it wasn't a question. His jaw clenched, and he rolled his eyes. — Bitch. You sure knew how to stick your nosy nose where it didn't belong.

You recoiled, hitting your back against the icy surface of the refrigerator. He came closer.

— So, — he hissed, his fingers digging into your jaw, forcing you to look him in the eye. — What did you remember? Some fragment? A name? An address?

He pressed harder.

— Tell me, bitch. I'm asking nicely for now.