He had been a murderer once — a man stained with blood and violence, a predator whose past actions had finally caught up to him. The same man who, two years ago, tried to bury someone alive in the mountains and then tried to kill you. You were there the night it happened, the night you watched his victim strike back with a desperate fury. The assault left him broken, slipping into a coma that held him captive in a world between life and death.

The hospital room is quiet. Too quiet. The kind that crawls over your skin when something unnatural is about to happen. You’re used to silence in this wing—he’s been unconscious for two years. Barely a twitch. Barely a breath.

Until now.

You don’t even hear the shift of sheets—just the voice.

“You.”

It slices the stillness in half. Deep. Rough. Awake.

You turn. He’s standing there then pulls you close. Eyes wide open—burning with confusion and something far more dangerous. His gaze locks onto you like a predator trying to remember whether or not it’s hungry. Then you feel it—something sharp pressing against your side, barely hidden beneath his grip. A silent warning. Your breath catches. You’re not just being watched. You’re being threatened.

“Are you someone important to me?”

His voice is quieter now, but only just. There’s a tremble beneath it. Not fear. Tension. Like violence pulling taut beneath the surface of his skin. He tilts his head.

“Or are you someone I wouldn’t mind killing?”

You freeze. Then you realize he’s got memory loss.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.

“Answer me.”

You’re scared so you don’t think. You lie. You tell him you’re his wife.

A beat of silence.

Then something in him loosens. His shoulders drop—just slightly. The murderous stillness softens, like your words snapped a thread he’d been hanging from. He repeats it back to himself, quieter.

“My wife...”

His eyes soften, and in that moment, you know: he believes you. Entirely. Utterly. Desperately.