Chapter 1: The Patient

The ambulance bay doors slammed open at 3:47 AM.

I knew the time because I'd just checked my phone, counting down the last three hours of a twelve-hour shift that had already included two cardiac arrests, one overdose, and a man who swore his cat had poisoned him. Normal Tuesday in the Mercy General ER.

"Incoming!" The paramedics rolled the stretcher through like they were running from something. "John Doe, found unconscious near the railyard. Multiple contusions, possible internal bleeding, unresponsive."

I grabbed gloves from the dispenser and fell into step beside them. The fluorescent lights caught the patient's face, and my stomach dropped.

His face was a ruin. Not just beaten. Destroyed. Methodically, professionally destroyed. Someone had taken their time with this. The swelling had already started, purpling his orbital bones, but beneath the damage I could see sharp features, dark hair matted with blood.

"Bay three," I directed, already cataloging injuries. Defensive wounds on his knuckles. Whoever had done this hadn't gotten away clean.

We transferred him to the trauma bed. Dr. Chen appeared beside me, her reading glasses pushed up on her forehead, coffee still steaming in her hand.

"What do we have?"

"John Doe. Found by transit workers about forty minutes ago. No ID, no phone. Vitals are stable but weak." I checked his blood pressure again. "He's been worked over. Professionally."

Dr. Chen leaned closer, examining the pattern of bruising across his ribs. "Someone knew what they were doing. Avoided the kidneys. Didn't want to kill him."

No. Just make him wish he was dead.

"Get me a CT scan, full bloodwork." She turned to me. "Dahlia, you're on him tonight. Keep me posted."

I nodded, already reaching for the IV kit.

The other nurses cleared out as I worked, the usual dance of emergency medicine. Insert the IV, clean the wounds I could access, monitor his vitals. The man didn't move. Didn't flinch even when I probed the deeper cuts. Wherever he was, it was far from this fluorescent hell.

I was bandaging a gash on his forearm when his eyes opened.

Not the slow awakening of consciousness returning. One second closed, the next wide open, fixed on my face with an intensity that made my hands still on the gauze.

Dark gray eyes. Almost silver in the harsh lighting. Looking at me like I was the only thing in the universe.

"You," he rasped.

I should have paged the doctor. Should have checked his pupils, asked him the standard questions: name, date, president. Instead I stood frozen, my gloved hands still pressed against his arm.

"Sir, you're at Mercy General Hospital. You've been injured. Can you tell me your name?"

His brows drew together. Confusion, pain, something else I couldn't read. He tried to lift his hand toward my face, but the effort was too much. It fell back to the bed.

"I know you," he said. "I know you."

"I don't think we've met." I kept my voice steady, professional. Detached. The way I'd learned to be in this job, with all the patients who grabbed at me, confused or afraid or simply wanting human contact. "Can you tell me your name?"

His gaze found my face. Desperate. Lost.

"I don't..." The words came slow, like pulling them from deep water. "I don't know."

His vitals spiked on the monitor. Blood pressure climbing, heart rate accelerating. I put my hand on his shoulder.

"Hey. Hey. You're safe here. You're in a hospital. Whatever happened to you, it's over."

A lie. I didn't know if it was over. Didn't know what kind of trouble had found him or whether it would follow him here. But the words seemed to reach him. His breathing slowed.

"I don't remember anything," he said, and the rawness in his voice was worse than any wound I'd seen tonight. "But I remember you."

The monitor beeped its steady rhythm. Somewhere down the hall, another ambulance was arriving. The night shift churned on around us, endless and uncaring.

But in that moment, with his gaze fixed on mine and those impossible words hanging between us, the chaos faded to background noise.

I knew I should pull back. Should page Dr. Chen, follow protocol, maintain the distance that kept me functional in this job.

Instead, I leaned closer.

"My name is Dahlia," I said quietly. "And I'm going to help you figure out who you are."

Something flickered in his ruined face. Not quite a smile. Not quite relief. But close enough to both that I felt it in my chest.

"Dahlia," he repeated, like he was memorizing it. Like he was afraid he'd forget.

Given what he'd just told me, maybe he was.

I didn't know then what I was promising. Didn't know that the man on that bed would become a mystery I couldn't solve and a danger I couldn't walk away from.

All I knew was that he looked at me like I was his anchor in a storm of forgotten memories.

And god help me, I didn't want to let go.