I try again. This time, my fingers respond, dragging weakly across the blanket. The sensation is strange—disconnected, like my body is half a second behind my brain.


    The man sitting across from me doesn''t blink. He''s too still, too measured, the kind of person who''s either seen everything or doesn''t care anymore. I grip the stiff hospital blanket, fingers curling, grounding myself in something real. "Who are you?"


    A parking garage. The docks. My brain tries to reach for something—a meeting, a deal, an ambush, something that led to me waking up here instead of a morgue. But all I get is static.


    The words punch the breath from my lungs. That feels right. I deal in secrets. Dig into the cracks, follow trails no one else can see, put names and numbers together in ways they were never meant to be arranged. Classified cover-ups. Operations that never officially existed.


    The air in the room feels thicker, pressing in, suffocating. The walls seem smaller, the smell of antiseptic suddenly too sharp. I shouldn''t be here.


    The man watches, unimpressed. "You''re not ready to move."


    "You won''t make it five steps." "Then I''ll crawl."


    The man pulls a gun from his jacket, grip steady, muzzle trained on the door just as the handle turns. A shadow shifts under the crack.


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    But then the door explodes inward.


    I push forward, my hospital gown clinging to my skin, soaked through with rain and sweat, the raw panic that I refuse to acknowledge. I feel exposed, vulnerable, like a wounded animal limping through open territory while unseen predators decide when to strike.


    At the end of the alley, he presses himself against a brick wall and glances at me—quick, assessing—before jerking his chin toward the street.


    I don''t ask who they are. I don''t know if I care.


    He shifts, scanning the rooftops again, muttering something under his breath before speaking louder. "Follow my lead. Don''t stop. Don''t hesitate."


    My brain barely has time to process before my body reacts, instinct taking over. He strides across the street with the kind of confidence that makes people hesitate, that makes trained men second-guess their orders.


    We''re nearly there when the passenger door bursts open. The man inside steps out, gun already raised.


    "Move." No argument. No time to think.


    My so called savior slides into the driver''s seat, shoving the body aside without hesitation, his foot slamming on the gas. The tires shriek against the wet pavement. The gunfire from the bus stop guy starts a second later.


    Two cars. Headlights cutting through the rain.


    The Range Rover is still coming.


    He glances at the mirror, eyes narrowing. Then he does something insane. He slams the brakes.


    Metal screeches, the force sending us skidding, but he yanks the wheel, recovering just in time to gun the engine again. Another sharp turn. An alley. Narrow. Dark. Barely wide enough for the car. Trash cans explode against the sides as we plow through.


    We''re clear for now.


    "Who the hell are you?" I ask, voice tight. For the first time, something flickers in his expression.


    Kaito hasn''t said anything else since we lost the Range Rover. His grip on the wheel is firm, his eyes flicking between the road and the rearview mirror in practiced intervals.


    The words hit like a dull hammer, pressing against the fracture lines in my memory. Before I got shot. Before I woke up in a hospital with seventeen days carved out of my mind. Before I left a warning for myself.


    "I knew you''d make enemies. I didn''t think they''d take you out of the game this fast."


    The wrong people. A fresh wave of unease settles into my chest. I try again. "Give me a name."


    "You ever heard of Eclipse?"


    The word slams into me. Not just recognition. Instinct. Immediate, visceral. I know that name. I know it in the way you know the weight of a gun before you fire it, the way you recognize a scar on your body even if you don''t remember how you got it.


    "What is Eclipse?" I ask, my voice quieter now.


    "I was hoping you could tell me."


    I push up, twisting in my seat, bringing my gun up, ignoring the way my hands shake. The pain in my limbs is secondary now, drowned out by adrenaline. I fire. The first shot goes wide. The second doesn''t.


    Not until we take another turn, putting more distance between us and the wreckage. Kaito glances at me, something sharp and approving in his expression. "Not bad for someone who was in a coma an hour ago."


    I don''t answer. Because I know this isn''t over. Whoever or whatever Eclipse is—whoever I was before all of this— They aren''t done hunting me. Not even close.