2025-02-18 19:04:38Darkness clings to me like a heavy blanket. My body aches, my muscles are tight, and there’s a sharp, burning pain in my side. I take a slow breath, trying to steady my head, but even that hurts.
The smell of blood is thick in the air. I blink, trying to focus. The motel room around me is a disaster. Broken glass covers the floor, catching the flickering neon light from outside. A chair is overturned. Bullet holes mark the walls. And my hands… They’re covered in blood. Panic grips me. What happened? My heartbeat pounds in my chest. I press my fingers against my temple, trying to remember. But there’s nothing. A black void where the last two days should be. A sharp pain pulls my attention to my side. My shirt is ripped, dark with dried blood. Someone—me?—stitched a wound just above my hip. It’s messy but holding. I touch it, wincing. It’s real. This is real. But I have no idea how I got here. I push myself up, unsteady on my feet. I glance at the cracked mirror above the dresser. The reflection staring back at me looks nothing like the man I remember—tired eyes, streaks of dried blood on my face, a haunted expression. I swallow hard. No time to panic. I need answers. My eyes land on the motel TV. I grab the remote with shaking hands and turn it on. The screen flashes with static, then a news anchor’s voice fills the silence. The air leaves my lungs in a sharp exhale. I stumble back, gripping the dresser. No. That can’t be right. The screen changes to a security camera video. A hooded figure steps out of a burning building, smoke billowing behind him. The timestamp says it happened last night. Then the figure turns slightly toward the camera. My stomach drops. It’s my face. No. No, that’s not possible. But it is. The news anchor keeps talking, but I can barely hear him. I grip the remote, my knuckles white. This has to be a setup. Someone is framing me. But who? And why can’t I remember anything? A knock at the door makes my breath hitch. I freeze. Another knock, louder this time. The voice is calm. Professional. They know exactly who I am. I scan the room fast. Window—too small. No fire escape. The knock turns into a hard bang. No time to think. I yank open the nightstand drawer. Inside—cold metal. A gun. Loaded. Who left this for me? The doorknob rattles. Outside, a metallic click—the sound of a gun being cocked. They’re armed. I need to get out. Now. The bathroom. Small window. Tight fit, but possible. The door bursts open just as I dive for cover. Gunfire erupts. Bullets rip through the walls, shattering the mirror. Adrenaline kicks in. I don’t think—I move. I shove the bathroom window open and squeeze through, glass cutting into my shoulder as I drop into the alley. The second my feet hit the ground, I run. Pain screams through my body, but I don’t stop. Voices shout behind me. Footsteps close in. I vault a chain-link fence, hit the ground hard, roll, and keep moving. My body knows what to do, even if my mind is a mess. I disappear into the shadows, one thought pounding in my head. Survive. --- I don’t stop until I reach an abandoned industrial lot. Rusted shipping containers tower around me. I press my back against one, trying to catch my breath. Silence. For now, I’ve lost them. I press my fingers against my temple. Think, Nathan. Nothing makes sense. My memories are gone. My face is all over the news. Someone tried to kill me. And worst of all… I don’t know if I actually did it. I check my pockets. My phone is dead. But then my fingers brush something else. A folded piece of paper. I open it and stare at the messy handwriting—my own. A chill runs down my spine. Below that, a set of numbers. Coordinates. I close my eyes, pushing down the fear. Whoever I was before all this, I left myself a clue. And I have to follow it. Because if I don’t figure out the truth… Someone else will. And I have a feeling I won’t like their version of the story. ---
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I take a deep breath, and my body moves before I can think. There’s no time to hesitate.The motel room is a wreck—bullet holes in the walls, shattered glass on the floor, and my blood staining the sheets. I have to get out. Now.I scan the room, searching for anything useful. My fingers find something hard under the nightstand—a burner phone. But the back is open, and the battery is missing. Someone disabled it. Maybe as a warning.I reach into my pocket and pull out a small, folded note. My heartbeat pounds as I read the words written in my own handwriting:"Don’t trust your memories."A chill runs down my spine. What does that mean?Below the message, there are coordinates. I don’t recognize them, but they’re my only clue.Before I can process anything, the motel phone rings.The sharp sound cuts through my nerves like a knife.I freeze. My pulse races. No one should know I’m here.Except for the person who left me that note.The phone rings again.I pick it up, forcing myself to s
SHADOWS OF THE OAT CHAPTER 3
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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 s
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