I’m working undercover as a fellow citizen of France, blending into the cobbled streets and crowded cafés. In reality, though, I’m on a mission for the Italian Mafia, sent to track down someone who’s been slipping through our fingers for months. My boss told me the target was hiding in a hospital right in the middle of town. So, like the idiot I can be under pressure, I made a mess of things—swerved my car too hard, clipped a corner, and crashed. Shards of glass rained down on me, slicing into my arm and leg before I even had time to register the pain.

They rushed me into the hospital immediately, nurses buzzing like hornets, pulling glass out of my skin piece by piece while my head spun with adrenaline. By the time it’s over, I’m bandaged, exhausted, and forced into a sterile white room where they tell me I need to “rest and recover.” Because of my medical history—stuff I’d rather not talk about—they decide to keep me overnight.

So now I’m lying here, staring at the ceiling tiles, waiting. The air smells like antiseptic and rain, and every sound outside my door makes my heart jump. Then the door opens with a slow, deliberate click. You walk in. And the strangest thing happens. For a second, I forget the mission, forget the Mafia, forget the glass still stinging under my bandages.

Because you seem familiar. Too familiar. Like someone I’ve known before.