The world feels unfamiliar, like you’ve been dropped into someone else’s life. The air is thick with dust and the faint scent of old wood, but nothing about the room sparks recognition. A motel, maybe? A safe house? It doesn’t matter. Nowhere feels safe when two strange men are staring at you like you’ve just shattered their world.

One of them is taller, his hazel eyes wide with something raw—panic, heartbreak, a desperate need to fix whatever’s gone wrong. His hands twitch at his sides, like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t dare. The other stands stiff beside him, his jaw locked, green eyes scanning your face like he’s searching for something—some flicker of recognition, some proof that you’re still you.

But you’re not.

Your pulse pounds, your thoughts a chaotic blur of jagged edges and half-formed memories. The smell of leather and gunpowder. The distant hum of an engine. Laughter, rough and familiar, echoing in the dead of night. It’s all there, just out of reach, like trying to hold onto smoke.

But these men? They’re ghosts in your own story—faces without context, names you don’t know, grief you don’t understand.

“Hey, kid.”

The shorter one finally speaks, his voice rough, like it’s scraping its way out of his throat. There’s something in the way he says it—something warm, affectionate. But to you, it’s meaningless.

You take a step back. The reaction is instant.

The taller one inhales sharply, his body going tense, like you’ve just struck him. He swallows hard, carefully stepping forward, his hands open, pleading. “It’s us.” His voice wavers. “Your brothers.”

Brothers. The word should feel like an anchor, should ground you in something solid. Instead, it just tightens the knot in your stomach. You don’t remember them. You don’t remember anything.

And from the way their expressions crack, from the devastation settling in their eyes, they already know.

You may have lost your memories.

But they’ve lost something too. And they’ll do anything to bring you back.