Two weeks later.....
A young man bolted upright in bed, eyes roaming the unfamiliar room. His memory was foggy and a dizzy tide threatened to pull him under. He tried to force a memory to surface—anything—but all he could see was a mirror on the wall. Stumbling across the floor, he stood before it and barely recognized himself.
His brunette hair lay in a tangled bird's nest, his eye sockets sunken, his lips as pale as chalk. He ran his hands over the face that used to be smooth and found rough skin; he was wearing a pyjama that reeked of antiseptic.
Nothing in the room told him where he was. He moved toward the door and was about to open it when three men arrived before him and yanked it open, staring at the man in front of them.
"Get ready—he might get violent," the man in the middle warned, and they all tensed.
Violent? The word shocked him. How could he be violent? Before he could speak, a clank at his wrists announced handcuffs.
