A Name Without A Past

CHAPTER 1 - THE MAN WITH NO NAME

Darkness didn't come softly.

It pressed in-thick, heavy, suffocating-the way deep water smothers sound. Larry didn't know that name yet, didn't know any name, but the pressure of the dark felt like something he'd known before: like a warning, like a memory that couldn't push through the fog.

He inhaled sharply.

Chemical air. Cold. Sterile. The faint sting of antiseptic threaded with...the absence of life.

He wasn't dead.

He didn't think so.

But he wasn't sure.

His eyelids creaked open like rusted hinges. A ceiling swam into focus: cracked, water-stained, the paint peeling in pale strips like old scabs. A flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead, blinking in a pattern that made the shadows stutter across the room.

He blinked once. Twice.

Nothing about the sight sparked familiarity.

Not the ceiling.

Not the smell.

Not the echoing emptiness swallowing the room.

He lifted a hand. It felt like moving through syrup. His fingers trembled-thin, pale, stiff-but the moment his palm brushed the sheets beneath him, a new realization struck him like a blunt hit to the chest.

Hospital sheets.

He was in a hospital bed.

A filthy one.

The mattress was lumpy, the sheets dingy, the rails rusted. He lay there for a moment, listening. There were no beeping monitors. No nurses. No murmurs from nearby rooms. He didn't hear the usual hum of life that hospitals carried like a heartbeat.

It felt abandoned.

No-not just abandoned.

It felt evacuated.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold enough to sting. For a moment he sat there, hunched forward, palms digging into the mattress as if afraid gravity might tilt and upend him.

He glanced down at himself.

His forearms were bruised. Thin scratches marked his skin-not deep, but recent. Hospital scrubs hung loosely on his frame, the fabric wrinkled, misbuttoned, as if someone had changed him in a hurry.

"Hello?" His voice rasped, hoarse. "Anyone here?"

Silence answered. Not the peaceful kind. The hungry kind.

His throat tightened.

Something was wrong. He felt it in his bones, in some internal compass that still worked even when everything else in him was shattered.

He stood, swaying. The room tilted, then steadied.

A wheelchair lay overturned near the door. Papers were scattered across the floor-nurse charts, patient logs, torn pages with scribbled notes. A coffee mug lay shattered near a chair, its contents dried into a dark stain.

A struggle.

A sudden one.

He stepped toward the window. The blinds were bent, some slats twisted as though someone had gripped them too hard.

Outside...night.

Or maybe very early morning. A fog clouded the street, swallowing the lampposts and turning the world into a smear of dull gold and gray. No movement. No passing cars. No voices.

He turned from the window.

The wall to his left held a dusty mirror. Not cracked. Not shattered. Just dirty.

He approached it with careful steps.

His reflection emerged slowly-first his shape, then the contours of his face. He stared at the stranger staring back.

Short, dark hair. A faint scar just above his left eyebrow. Pale skin. Worn shadows beneath his eyes as if sleep had been something optional for a long time. He lifted a hand to his face; the reflection followed, confirming it was him-not some hallucination.

But nothing about the man in the mirror looked familiar.

He didn't recognize his own eyes.

He didn't recognize anything.

His chest tightened. Panic rose like cold water flooding a sinking boat.

Who am I?

He opened his mouth, but no answer came.

Then-a flicker.

A flash.

Not a memory.

A face.

A woman.

Dark hair pulled back. Clear, sharp eyes. A soft mouth drawn with concern-maybe grief. Her image burned behind his eyelids with the kind of clarity nothing else had. Not his name. Not his past. Not even what had happened to him.

Just her.

And the moment the memory struck, it wasn't gentle. It slammed into him with the force of something long repressed, long needed.

Ella.

The name formed itself in his mind like it had always been there, waiting behind locked doors.

Ella.

Ella.

Ella.

His chest constricted painfully, as if his heart recognized the name even if his mind didn't. His breath caught.

He didn't know her.

He knew her.

The distinction pulsed through him.

And then-footsteps.

Soft. Distant. In the hallway.

Adrenaline surged through him instinctively. He didn't know why but he knew-hide. He moved quickly, crouching behind the bed. His heart hammered against his ribs.

The footsteps stopped outside the room.

A shadow passed under the door.

Slow.

Measured.

Someone was checking rooms.

He didn't know who.

He didn't know why.

But every hair on his arms stood up.

This person was not here to help him.

A faint metallic click sounded-the unmistakable sound of a gun's safety being disengaged.

His blood went cold.

The shadow shifted. He held his breath.

The door handle turned.

Slowly. Deliberately.

He pressed himself tighter against the floor, heart slamming in his chest.

The door creaked open a fraction.

A dark-gloved hand pushed it wider.

Before the figure could enter, a voice echoed from the far end of the hallway:

"...-found nothing in the east wing. Check upstairs."

The hand froze.

Then withdrew.

The door clicked shut again.

He listened to the footsteps retreat, growing distant, swallowed by the hallway.

He waited another full minute before he dared to breathe again.

Who were they?

Why were they searching?

Why did he feel in his bones that if they found him, he would not leave alive?

He rose shakily, backing away from the door. His pulse still thundered.

He scanned the room for anything he could use.

A drawer.

A closet.

A coat rack.

Most held nothing but dust and forgotten supplies.

In one drawer he found a cracked phone-dead, no battery. In another, an ID card for a nurse named Hannah Reyes. The date printed was from two years ago.

Two years.

How long had this hospital been abandoned?

And why was he here?

He stumbled to the door, pressing his ear against it.

Silence again.

He held the ID card, flipping it over, searching for something-anything-that might anchor him to reality. But the only photo belonged to a tired-looking woman with warm eyes and a half-smile.

Not Ella.

Ella.

The name pulsed again in his mind.

He didn't know who she was-or what she was to him-but she was the only thing that wasn't swallowed by fog.

A single island of clarity.

And if he'd remembered her, then maybe...

Maybe she could remember him.

He pushed the door open carefully.

The hallway stretched out long and dim, shadows pooling like spilled ink. Wheelchairs and carts lay knocked over. Posters hung askew. A gurney lay overturned as if someone had crashed into it.

He moved down the corridor, every soft footstep echoing far too loudly in the empty silence.

He passed a sign: East Wing - Intensive Care.

He kept walking.

Another sign: Emergency Exit →

He headed toward it.

Halfway there, a sudden rush of air brushed behind him.

He froze.

Then ducked.

A bullet tore past his head, slamming into the wall with a deafening crack.

Instinct-raw, primal, trained-took over. He sprinted forward, skidding behind a row of lockers.

Another shot rang out, sparks flying from metal.

His breath came fast and harsh.

A voice called out.

Male. Cold.

"I know you're awake. You're supposed to be dead."

His stomach twisted.

He didn't recognize the voice.

But the voice recognized him.

The man fired again.

Larry bolted down the hall, crashing through the emergency exit door, bursting into the freezing night air. Fog swallowed him instantly as he stumbled down the cracked steps into the alley behind the hospital.

Another gunshot shattered the night.

He ducked behind a dumpster. Brick chips rained down from the wall above him as another bullet struck.

He pressed a hand to his chest, forcing himself to breathe through the panic.

Find a way out.

Move.

Survive.

A faint whisper of memory curled through his mind-not a picture this time, but a voice.

Her voice.

Ella: "Don't freeze. Move."

He took a breath.

Then he ran.

He sprinted into the fog, feet pounding pavement, lungs burning, turning corner after corner in a maze of alleys until the world blurred into streaks of gray. He didn't stop until his legs nearly collapsed beneath him.

When he finally staggered to a halt, gripping a lamppost for balance, he realized three things with sharp, paralyzing clarity:

1. Someone wanted him dead.

2. He had no idea why.

3. And the only memory-only truth-he had left in the entire world was a woman.

Ella.

And he needed to find her.

No matter who she was.

No matter what she might say.

Fog clung to him like wet cotton, turning the world into a ghost town of silhouettes and muted echoes. Larry leaned against the lamppost, chest heaving, the cold air clawing at his throat. Every sound became a threat-the creak of an old sign, the distant rattle of a passing train, even his own heartbeat.

Nothing was familiar.

Not the city.

Not the street.

Not the body he was trapped inside.

He pushed off the lamppost, pulling the thin hospital scrub top tighter around himself as if it might shield him from the night-or from whoever was hunting him.

He turned onto a narrow street lined with closed shops, neon signs flickering half-dead through the fog. A bakery. A pawn shop. A laundromat. Places that should have felt ordinary but instead looked foreign, like pieces of a life he had never lived.

His bare feet were numb. Every step felt like a stab of cold.

He looked down at his arms again. Faint impressions marked his skin-bruises shaped like fingers. Someone had held him down. Hard.

Someone had done this to him.

The memory surged back: the man in the hospital hallway saying-

"You're supposed to be dead."

Larry swallowed hard. He didn't know who wanted him gone, but instinct screamed that the danger was far from over.

He kept walking.

A sudden wave of dizziness hit him. He caught himself on the wall of a closed pharmacy, breath rattling.

What if he couldn't survive long enough to find answers?

What if the only thing his mind clung to-Ella-was nothing but a hallucination? A fragment. A glitch. What if she wasn't real?

No.

He wouldn't accept that.

He didn't know who he was, but he knew this:

The memory of her was the only thing that felt like truth.

He pushed forward.

A streetlight flickered, sputtering, then buzzed back to life. Its glow fell on the cracked pavement, illuminating a small cluster of people gathered near the bus station down the block.

His heart kicked up.

People. Witnesses. Life.

He approached cautiously, staying in the shadows. A man in a heavy jacket leaned against a vending machine, sipping from a paper cup. A woman scolded her toddler in a language Larry didn't recognize. A teenage boy scrolled on his phone.

Normal.

Ordinary.

Nothing like the nightmare behind him.

He stepped out of the shadows when the man in the jacket glanced up.

"Hey," Larry rasped. His voice felt raw. "I-I need help."

The man straightened, eyes narrowing as he took in Larry's hospital scrubs, bare feet, bruises.

"You alright, buddy?"

No.

Not even close.

"I woke up in a hospital," Larry said slowly. "It was... deserted. Someone tried to kill me."

He hesitated. "I don't know who I am."

The man blinked. "You serious?"

Larry nodded, the truth trembling inside him.

The woman with the toddler stepped closer, her wariness shifting to concern.

"Should we call someone? An ambulance maybe? Or the police?"

At the word police, something flinched inside him.

Instinct.

Fear.

Or maybe memory leaking through the cracks.

"I don't know," he murmured.

The teenage boy finally looked up. "You're all over the news, dude."

Larry stiffened. "What?"

The boy turned his phone toward him.

A blurry photo-taken from a distance-showed men in tactical gear entering the abandoned hospital.

The headline read:

UNIDENTIFIED PATIENT ESCAPES FACILITY - CONSIDERED UNSTABLE

Larry's stomach dropped.

The article scrolled beneath it:

Authorities warn the public not to approach the unidentified male who escaped St. Brigid Hospital early this morning. He may be dangerous and mentally unstable...

He stepped back. "That's not true."

The man in the jacket raised both hands. "Alright, take it easy-"

"That's not true," Larry repeated, firmer this time.

But even he didn't know if he believed it.

Why had he woken strapped down?

Why had someone shot at him the moment he got out?

The woman bit her lip. "Do you remember anything?"

Larry felt a tremor run through him.

"Just one thing," he said quietly. "A woman."

The man's brows lifted. "Your girlfriend?"

"I don't know." Larry swallowed. "Her name is Ella."

The teenager frowned. "Ella who?"

"I... don't know."

The boy sighed. "Then she might not even be real."

"She's real." The answer left Larry before he could think. "She has to be."

Before they could question him further, a screech of tires split the night.

A black SUV turned sharply into the street, headlights slicing through the fog. All four passengers at the bus station froze.

Larry felt the shift before his mind caught up-the instinctive prickle across the back of his neck.

Danger.

Coming fast.

The SUV slowed.

Too much.

The man in the jacket muttered, "What the hell...?"

The passenger window rolled down.

A gloved hand appeared-holding a gun.

"Get DOWN!" Larry shouted, shoving the man aside.

A burst of gunfire erupted.

Screams ripped through the air as the bus stop exploded into chaos. People dove behind benches and vending machines. The toddler wailed. Glass shattered in an explosion of sound.

Larry sprinted-not away, but toward the nearest alley.

Someone was firing at him.

At the people around him.

To get to him.

The SUV roared forward.

Larry ran, lungs burning, pounding down the alley as bullets sparked off brick walls around him.

He darted left, then right, weaving between dumpsters and fire escapes. His bare feet were raw, sliced by debris, but he didn't slow.

Another shot.

Another.

He had one advantage: he knew how to run.

How to disappear.

How to survive.

Even if he didn't know why.

He ducked behind a loading dock, panting. The SUV couldn't follow into the narrow alley, but the men inside could get out and pursue him on foot.

He listened.

Footsteps.

Getting closer.

He looked around wildly for anything-any weapon, any exit, any chance.

And then... he saw it.

A payphone.

Old. Graffiti-covered. But intact.

A phone.

A lifeline.

A spark of memory flared-someone telling him once:

"If you're ever in trouble, call me."

But the memory fizzled before the name surfaced.

Still-he had one name.

Ella.

It wasn't much.

It was everything.

He sprinted to the payphone, nearly slipping on wet pavement. His hands shook as he snatched up the receiver and jammed coins from the return slot into the machine.

Please work. Please.

The dial tone buzzed.

Alive.

He tried dialing variations of the name-area codes, common combinations-but each returned the same automated failure.

No match.

The footsteps grew louder.

Closer.

He slammed the receiver down, panic clawing at him.

Think. THINK.

If he knew her name... maybe he knew her city.

Her precinct.

Her voice.

He forced himself to breathe, to reach inside the fog for anything-

A flash.

Blue.

A badge.

Her voice saying:

"Detective Ella Morgan."

He gasped.

His hand flew to the keypad.

He dialed the precinct.

One ring.

Two.

Three-

"Metro Police Department, how may I direct your-"

"I need Detective Ella Morgan," he rasped. "Now. Please-she's the only one who can help me."

"One moment-"

Footsteps rounded the corner.

He looked up.

A man in a tactical mask raised a gun at him.

The operator's voice crackled faintly over the line:

"Detective Morgan isn't available. Who's calling?"

Larry's voice broke.

"I don't know."

The masked man pulled the trigger.

A deafening blast.

The world went white.

And everything went silent.

Larry has just been shot at the exact moment he contacts Ella's precinct-setting up Chapter 2, where Ella learns someone asked for her minutes before a shooting connected to the abandoned hospital case.