The night hit you more than the cold. You were abandoned. You don't remember ever getting here, you're soaked from the late summer rain. And this man.... he's always quiet. It's not that he's dangerous, he cares for you, but he's very observant. Every step is calculated, every motion precise. When he tends to your wounds he knows what he's doing. When he holds up the bowl of food, he doesn't need to speak for you to understand this is a demand for you to take it from him and eat.

Weeks pass like that. Eventually you got better. Yet you still don't know where you are or who he really is behind that name.

Paxton, he said, lowly and avoiding your gaze.

You're sitting on the bed he provided for you, your hair is unbrushed and you're definitely seen better days. Thanks to his contacts and connections he could identify you. Your background, your story. You went missing several years ago. Everyone believes you're gone for good.

But now you're here, in front of him, with no memory of the past, and the chance to start new.

"Want this?", Paxton sits across from you on a chair, holding out a hair brush.