I opened my eyes, and the world felt like a cage. My head throbbed, a dull hammer pounding inside my skull. I was slumped on a cold floor, rough concrete scraping my palms as I pushed myself up. Above me, a flickering neon light buzzed faintly, casting jagged shadows across the walls. I didn't know where I was—or even who I was.

There was a piece of paper in my hand, crumpled and damp with sweat. Scrawled across it in unfamiliar handwriting, black ink bleeding at the edges, were the words: "You have 24 hours to confess." I read it again, then a third time, but it made no sense. Confess what? To whom?

I staggered to my feet, legs trembling beneath me. The room was small—maybe ten feet by ten. Bare concrete walls, a steel door on one side, locked tight. A small table sat in the corner, holding a pen and a blank sheet of paper. Above it, an old speaker hung on the wall, its surface speckled with rust. Somewhere, I heard the faint drip of water, a metronome counting down the silence.

"Who did this?" I shouted, my voice bouncing off the walls. No answer, just the weight of stillness pressing in. I stumbled to the door, slamming my fists against it. "Let me out!" The metal was cold, unyielding.

Then the speaker crackled. I froze. A voice—low, raspy, like a whisper forced into sound—spilled out: "You know what you did that night." My heart slammed against my ribs as I stared at the speaker. "Write your confession. Time's ticking."

"What night?" I yelled back, but the voice was gone, leaving only a final hiss of static. I lurched back to the table, staring at the blank paper. The pen felt foreign in my hand, but I gripped it anyway. "I don't know what happened," I scribbled, the words shaky and weak, like a plea to myself.

I closed my eyes, willing my mind to remember. Something flickered—a flash. A woman's face, long hair spilling over her shoulders, a smile warm like the glow of a dying sun. She called to me… my name? I couldn't grasp it. The image dissolved into shadow, replaced by a faint sound—screaming, or maybe sobbing.

My eyes snapped open, breath ragged. Who was she? I paced the tiny room, searching for anything, a clue. Then I saw it: in the corner, under the table, something glinted faintly. I reached for it—a small necklace, its heart-shaped pendant catching the dim light. My chest tightened. I knew this. I remembered… my hand placing it around someone's neck. She smiled, her eyes sparkling, and said, "I'll always wear it."

"Raisa," I whispered. The name slipped out, heavy and unbidden, like a breath trapped too long in my lungs. Who was Raisa? I clutched the necklace, digging deeper into the fog of my mind. A river. Water rushed through my memory, and she stood there on the bank, looking at me with something like hope. Then my hands—stained with blood.

The speaker crackled again. "She trusted you," the voice said, colder now, slicing through the air. "But you betrayed her." I flinched, the necklace slipping from my fingers to clatter on the floor. "Write your confession, or she'll be gone for good."

I stared at the paper, my hand trembling as I grabbed the pen. What had I done to her? I scratched out a single word: "Raisa." But it wasn't enough. I needed to know. I needed to remember. And time was slipping away.

The dripping sound grew louder in my ears, though I couldn't find its source. I picked up the necklace again, running my thumb over the tiny heart. Another memory flickered—walking with her, the crunch of gravel under our feet, the sound of her laughter. She leaned close, her hair brushing my arm, and whispered something I couldn't catch. Then the scene shifted: darkness, the river again, and a scream that might've been hers—or mine.

I slammed my fist on the table, the pen rolling off the edge. "Tell me what I did!" I shouted at the speaker, at the walls, at the void in my head. Nothing. My gaze fell to the paper, the word "Raisa" staring back like an accusation. I pressed the pen to it again, but my hand froze. What if I had hurt her? What if I—

The speaker hissed back to life. "You held her close," it said, the words slow and deliberate. "Then you let her go." My stomach twisted. I saw it again—her face, her eyes wide with something I couldn't name. Fear? Love? The blood on my hands—was it hers?

I sank to the floor, the necklace clutched tight. "Raisa," I muttered again, louder this time, as if saying her name could pull her back from wherever she'd gone. The concrete bit into my knees, but I barely felt it. My mind was a storm—fragments of her smile, her voice, crashing against images of violence I couldn't piece together.

The neon light flickered faster now, like a heartbeat racing toward collapse. I dragged myself back to the table, staring at the paper. "I don't know," I wrote, the words sprawling across the page. "I don't know what I did. I don't know who I am." But that wasn't true, was it? I knew her. Raisa. She was real. She had to be.

The speaker stayed silent, but the weight of its last words lingered: you betrayed her. I traced the necklace's chain with my fingers, each link a tether to a past I couldn't grasp. Twenty-four hours. That's what the note said. Twenty-four hours to confess—or what? Lose her forever? Lose myself?

I picked up the pen again, my hand steadier now. "Raisa," I wrote once more, the name anchoring me to something solid. Whatever I'd done, whatever this place was, she was the key. And I'd find her—even if it meant tearing myself apart.