Wrong Identity

The man didn’t answer immediately. He just stared at Curtis, his expression shifting from curiosity to a cautious, squinting suspicion. He took one last pull of the cigarette and crushed it out on the laminate surface of the nightstand, a slow, grinding motion that set Curtis’s teeth on edge.

"You're in Oakhaven," the man said. "Which, unless you're from around here, is just a place where people stop when their cars break down or when they're trying to forget where they started. Now, as for the 'where,' you're in Room 12 of the Sunset Vista. And from where I'm standing, you look like you're about five seconds away from having a panic attack or a seizure. Maybe both."

Curtis shifted, the movement causing a sharp, electric spark of pain to shoot through his shoulder. For a split second, a flicker of the old blue wireframe danced across his vision—not a tactical map, but a jagged, fragmented glitch that looked like shattered glass. It vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving him feeling hollowed out. He looked at the ID card again. "Elias Thorne". The name felt like a lie, yet it carried a weight of truth that he couldn't quantify. If he was Elias, then who was Curtis? And if he was Curtis, why did this piece of plastic feel like the only solid thing in a world made of fog?

"I need to find people," Curtis said, his voice sounding more grounded, though still breathless. "A man named Silas. A woman named Mara. They... we were together."

The man in the canvas jacket let out a slow, whistling sigh, his expression softening from suspicion into a weary kind of patience. He didn't look like a man who knew Silas or Mara; he looked like a man who had seen a thousand strangers wake up in this room with the same frantic look in their eyes. He leaned back against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Look, pal, I don't know any Silas or Maras. The only people who’ve been in this wing of the Vista for the last three days are a couple of salesmen from the city and a guy who spends all his time staring at the vending machine," he said. He paused, his eyes drifting to the ID card still clutched in Curtis's trembling fingers. "You came in alone. You were shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, barely able to stand. You didn't mention any friends. You just asked for a room and collapsed the second the door clicked shut."

Curtis felt a cold void open in his stomach. The gap in his memory wasn't just a blur; it was a wall. He tried to visualize the limestone caves, the smell of damp minerals and the warmth of Julian's hand, but the images were receding, becoming as distant as a dream from a previous life. The physical reality of the room—the yellowing tiles, the smell of old smoke, the oppressive stillness—was fighting to overwrite those memories. He felt a sudden, visceral repulsion toward the room, a sense that this place was a trap designed to lull him into a state of mundane acceptance.

"I wasn't alone," Curtis whispered, more to himself than to the man. "I can't have been."

The man didn't argue, but he didn't offer a comforting lie either. He simply stepped back, leaving the door open, his gaze lingering on Curtis with a look of profound, exhausted indifference. It was the look of a man who had long ago stopped asking questions about the things that didn't make sense.

"I'm going to go get some coffee," the man said, his voice trailing off as he retreated down the hall. "If you're planning on staying, the rate is forty bucks a night. If you're planning on leaving, try not to bleed on the carpet on your way out. The manager's a real prick about the deposits."