He woke up choking.
Not gasping. Not coughing.
Choking—like invisible fingers were wrapped around his throat, dragging him out of a dream he couldn't remember.
The ceiling above him was cracked, stained in long, brown veins. Water dripped steadily into a metal bowl on the floor. The sound echoed around the room like a slow, ticking clock. The bed beneath him creaked when he moved, its mattress too thin, too damp.
He sat up slowly. His hands trembled. His throat burned.
He reached up and touched his neck.
No bruises.
Still, the pressure lingered, like his body hadn't caught up with whatever his mind had just escaped.
There was a window on the far wall, streaked with grime and half-covered by a rotting curtain. Morning light filtered through it—if it could be called morning. The sky was more ash than the sun. The buildings across the street were tall and lifeless, like tombstones. Fog curled around their bases, bleeding into the streets like smoke.
He stood up, legs weak.
The room looked like it had been abandoned for years. Peeling wallpaper, broken furniture. Mold in the corners. A cracked mirror above a dusty sink.
And in that mirror—
Nothing.
No face. No features. Just static. Like a TV left on after the world ended.

He stepped closer, heart thudding. Raised his hand. The reflection mimicked him perfectly—except the face. That part remained a smear, a shadow.
He leaned in.
A whisper brushed his ear.
> "Liar."
He spun around.
Nothing. Just the room. Just silence.
On the table near the bed sat a photograph. Half-burned. The image scorched and curled at the edges. It showed a woman—sharp cheekbones, eyes like bruised violets, caught mid-smile.
He didn't recognize her.
But his chest ached like he'd loved her once. Maybe more.
There was something scrawled on the back of the photo.
> "If you're reading this, it's already too late."
A shiver rolled down his spine.
He searched the room for answers. There was no ID. No wallet. The clothes he wore didn't quite fit—the coat was too large, the sleeves fraying. His boots were caked in dried mud.
He opened a drawer. Found an envelope with no return address.
Inside:
A torn slip of paper.
On it, in jagged black ink:
> "Don't trust the name they give you. You chose to forget."
He left the room.
The hallway outside was empty. The building groaned with age, and his footsteps stirred dust that hadn't moved in months.
Outside, the air was a bit cold against his skin. Rain had started to fall—light, but steady. The streets glistened, pools forming in the cracks of the concrete.
He had no name. No past. Only a photo of a stranger, a whisper of guilt in his throat, and a note that warned him not to trust himself.
Somewhere out there was the truth.
Or the lie he was still telling.