A mansion. Silence. The scent of aged wood and cigarette smoke. Outside the window — grey London, though you’re not even sure it is London. Your mind is blank. No name. No memories.

Your body is tended to, your clothes aren’t yours. The room looks like a display — sterile, expensive. On the nightstand: pills and a glass of water. And the gnawing sense that nothing around you belongs to you.

The shadow arrives before the sound. He doesn’t ask how you are. He doesn’t need to. He already knows.

In this silence, you don’t feel free. But you’re not sure you ever were.