The warehouse stands ahead, its rusted walls blending into the dark edges of the city. The coordinates led me here. Something in my gut tells me I've been here before. But my memory? Blank.
I stop the bike a block away, rolling it into the shadows. Never walk straight into the unknown. Always have an escape plan.
The air smells like oil and decay. The windows are broken. The wood is rotting. A perfect hiding place for someone who doesn't want to be found. Or someone who doesn't want to remember.
I run my hand along the steel doorframe, feeling for anything strange. My fingers catch on a small groove—a tiny mark left by someone who knew this place well. Someone like me.
The lock needs a six-digit code. My hands move before I can think. My fingers press the numbers on their own.
Beep. The lock clicks open.
Inside, the room is empty except for a few mattresses, a stash of weapons, a rusted sink, and a small desk with an old laptop.
The second I step in, my chest tightens. Familiar. Not safe, not comfortable—just familiar. Like I've been here before. Like my fingerprints are already in this room.
But I don't remember setting this place up.
I move fast, checking for hidden cameras, traps, anything out of place. Nothing. If The Oath had found this place, they would've left something behind. A warning. A bomb. But it's clean. For now.
I press the power button on the laptop. The screen flickers, filled with static. Then—
A voice. Broken. Distorted. But real.
"If you're watching this… you don't remember yet."
I freeze. The voice is damaged, but I know it. Familiar.
The screen flickers again, showing a man's blurry face. Older. Sharp eyes. Someone I should know.
I lean closer, gripping the desk.
"They're coming. Trust your instincts, Nathan. Not your memories."
A shiver runs down my spine. My pulse races.
My instincts have kept me alive. My memories have only left me lost.
Then—BOOM.
The explosion rips through the building.
The blast comes from the south side, tearing the wall apart in fire and metal. The force knocks me back, my ears ringing with white noise. Heat burns my skin. The floor tilts under me. The ceiling groans.
They found me.
Adrenaline hits hard. I roll, dodging falling debris. No time. Move.
Boots slam against the floor outside.
I reach for the nearest gun—a Glock 19. My hands check the mag out of pure reflex. Fifteen rounds.
The first agent steps through the smoke.
I fire.
The shot is clean. Precise. He drops.
Another shadow moves behind him. I pivot, aim, fire. Another body hits the ground.
The smoke is thick, the air full of burning metal. My lungs scream for oxygen, but I can't stop.
A third agent rushes in, rifle raised. Too fast. I dive behind the overturned table, bullets tearing through the space where I just stood.
My back slams against the desk. My fingers touch the laptop.
The message. The man. The warning.
No time.
I grab the laptop, shove it into a backpack near the weapons stash. Bullets tear through the wooden beams beside me.
They aren't here to capture me. They're here to erase me.
The exit is blocked. The blast destroyed the back wall.
That leaves only one way out—the second-floor window.
I move. Fast.
I vault over the table, sprint toward the metal shelves against the wall. I climb, my wounded side burning.
A bullet grazes my shoulder, leaving a trail of fire across my skin. I bite down the pain. No time to feel it.
The window is cracked, some glass already broken.
I kick through the rest and jump.
Cold air slams into me. The ground rushes up fast.
I tuck my body, rolling as I hit the pavement. Pain shoots through me, but I push it down.
More boots. More shadows. More threats.
I can't fight them all.
I run.
I disappear into the maze of the city, the laptop secure in my bag, my mind racing with one question.
Who was the man in the video?
And why do I feel like I already know the answer?