Present Day – Suburbs of New York
Damien Cross, now a man in his 40s, lives a quiet life—or at least tries to. A senior archaeologist by profession, a widower by fate, and a father by everything that's left in him. His wife died in a brutal car accident, just moments after coming back from work. Since then, it's been just him and his daughters—Evelyn and Aria.
It's morning. Evelyn's still upstairs, buried under her blanket, dodging responsibility like any teenager would.
"Evelyn, wake up, it's time for school!"Damien shouts from downstairs, flipping pancakes in a worn-out skillet. When she doesn't respond, he stomps up to her room.
"Up. Now. I'm leaving at 8:30 sharp. If you're not ready, I will leave you behind."
Groaning, Evelyn protests:
"Why can't you wake Aria first? Why always me?"
Damien sighs, already halfway back to the hallway.
"Because Aria's school's closed. Her principal died yesterday."
Evelyn grins smugly.
"Then... five more minutes."
But Damien lifts her like a sack of potatoes and plants her in front of the bathroom mirror.
"Brush. Now. Breakfast's on the table."
Minutes later, the girls are at the dining table. Aria, all sunshine and innocence. Evelyn, all sass and sarcasm.
"Dad, you make six figures a year, and we're eating pancakes?"
Damien, sipping his coffee and staring through the window, doesn't even look at her.
"Don't be spoiled, Evelyn. Most of that money goes to your college fund—and the new house."
But something changes.
For a moment, Damien turns to grab a packet of sugar from the counter. When he looks back—
He's there.
The man from the interrogation room.
That face. That smile. That void where a soul should be.
Damien's breath catches. His vision blurs. The world narrows to the figure on the porch.
"Dad? What's wrong?"Evelyn's voice slices through the moment.
Damien shakes it off, blinking fast.
"…Nothing. Nothing at all."
Evelyn, unaware of the ghost her father just saw, asks casually:
"When are you going to Nepal again?"
Damien forces his voice to steady.
"Tomorrow. Afternoon flight."
The Past – Interrogation Room
Damien, younger. Paler. Cracked.
He sits across from the questioner—sweat clinging to his face, hands trembling.
"Tell me what happened, Damien."
Silence. A beat. Then—
"My name is Damien Cross. And I suffer from Dissociative Identity Disorder."
TO BE CONTINUED...