THE MEMORY HEIST

She woke to the sound of water dripping,

The ceiling above her was a pale, water-stained yellow. Not hers. The smell of burnt coffee and something metallic curled around her senses. She sat up too fast, the motion sending black sparks across her vision.

The apartment was silent, except for the drip-drip-drip. A kitchen sink faucet, she realized. She didn't remember having a kitchen like that.

She didn't remember... anything.

A note sat on the table in front of her, written in neat, block letters:

Take your pill before 8 a.m. You'll need it.

Beside it, a single white capsule in a glass tumbler of water. No signature. No explanation.

Her first instinct was to throw it away. Instead, she checked the clock - 7:52 a.m.

Her stomach knotted. What if she needed it? What if it was poison?

She stared at the pill, heart thudding, until the decision made itself. She swallowed it dry.

And then it began.

The apartment fell away in a wash of light - blinding, searing - and she was standing in the middle of a crowded street. The air was wet with fog, voices calling out in a language she didn't know. Her fingers were clamped around a thick, bloodstained envelope.