The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sound in the sterile white room. The walls were too clean. The air too cold. Pale sunlight bled weakly through half-drawn blinds, casting faint lines across the floor. Everything smelled of antiseptic—sharp, sour, and inescapable. A quiet so heavy, it felt like the room itself was holding its breath.
On the bed, a man lay still, his chest rising and falling in slow, rhythmic breaths. His eyes remained closed, as if he, too, was caught inside the suffocating silence.
Then, slowly, his eyes opened—no panic, no alarm, just a sluggish drift into awareness. His vision was a foggy smear of light and shadow. His limbs felt heavy, uncooperative, a profound foreignness settling over him. This was not his body.
He blinked. Once. Twice. The world refused to come into focus.
A knock came, sharp and deliberate, slicing through the stillness. The door creaked open, and a man stepped inside—a broad-shouldered silhouette framed by the dim, colorless light leaking from the hallway. He looked to be in his early forties, dressed in a plain button-up shirt and slacks, but there was nothing plain about the way he moved. Every step was quiet. Controlled. Like a man who could command a room without raising his voice. There was a heaviness to him, a weight that made the sterile hospital walls feel too thin, too fragile. Not calm. Not kind. The stillness of an approaching storm.
"You're awake," the man said, voice rough and low, dragging each word out like it hurt to speak.
His throat burned raw. His voice came out low, hoarse. "What... happened?"
The man stepped closer, boots scraping lightly across the floor. "Do you... not remember?" he asked, voice thick with an unspoken burden.
He frowned, a deep, analytical crease forming on his brow. Remember what?
"You tried to kill yourself," the man said bluntly, the words snapping out like a slap.
He stared. The accusation hung in the sterile air, nonsensical. Me? "I... tried to kill myself?"
The man's expression flickered—somewhere between irritation and something colder. "You seriously don't remember?"
He didn't answer. The silence between them stretched, thick and choking.
The man cursed under his breath, frustration radiating off him like heat. "I'll call the doctor," he muttered, turning sharply and striding out of the room.
His gaze lingered on the door long after it clicked shut. Something about that man gnawed at him—familiar, but wrong. Like a photograph stretched too thin. A puzzle piece that almost fit.
He glanced around the room: machines beeped and hummed, a steel tray sat untouched, flowers wilted in a vase beside the bed. A small calendar perched awkwardly on a fruit basket, like an afterthought.
"A week, huh..." His jaw tightened, but his face remained unfazed. "Makes sense." The room was utterly empty, devoid of any sign that someone had been here. Just the cold hum of machines.
The door creaked open again. The man returned, a doctor trailing behind him. He turned his head slightly, watching them with a detached sort of interest.
"Oh—you're not supposed to be moving yet," the doctor said, voice gentle but taut with worry. He hurried over, guiding him carefully back into bed.
He didn't resist. He moved like a machine being repositioned.
The doctor adjusted his IV, fumbling slightly before clearing his throat. "Your uncle mentioned you don't seem to remember what happened."
He gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Indeed," he said, voice flat and unreadable.
The so-called uncle stood silently against the wall, arms folded, his face a blank slab. Something about him continued to claw at the edges of his mind.
"I think we'll need to run a few more tests," the doctor said, hesitation threading his voice. "Your earlier scans were normal. This... could be psychological."
The doctor's eyes met his—and froze. The force of his gaze hit like a wall. Cold. Sharp. Unyielding.
The doctor swallowed, words catching in his throat. "I—I apologize, I didn't mean—"
He sighed, heavy and deliberate, cutting him off. "Can I call someone?"
The uncle frowned. "Call? Who?"
"Someone I know."
The uncle hesitated, glancing at the doctor for approval, then handed over a phone.
He took it without hesitation, dialing a number like muscle memory. The ringing filled the room. Once. Twice. No answer.
A minute passed. Still nothing.
He frowned, handing the phone back with a soft exhale. "They're not answering."
The uncle and the doctor exchanged a quick, silent glance—something sharp and unspoken flashing between them.
The doctor cleared his throat awkwardly. "We'll give you some space. You need to rest." He gestured toward the door. "Please, sir."
They withdrew. The door clicked shut behind them.
He exhaled, feeling the silence flood in once more.
He turned toward the window—and caught it. A flicker. The blur of his own reflection in the glass. His breath hitched. His pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs, but outwardly, he remained still, a statue of pure shock.
Without hesitation, he rose again, dragging the IV stand behind him. The wheels shrieked against the floor, sharp and grating.
He crossed to the bathroom mirror.
The face that stared back at him wasn't his.
"Who...?" he whispered, his hand brushing over unfamiliar skin—his jaw, his eyes, his hair. His own reflection, the face of the man from the penthouse, was gone. Everything foreign. Everything wrong.
"This isn't me..."