Leaving the hospital, I went to the hotel I had mentioned to the police officer. 

On the way, I grabbed something quick and cheap to eat. Before going to my room, I carefully surveyed the hotel, noting all possible emergency exits, fire escapes, service elevators, and roof access. I did this meticulously, despite my fatigue and the pain from my fractured ribs. I thoroughly mapped out the area, including the surrounding streets.

I didn’t know where this reconnaissance technique came from; maybe I was just doing what seemed most sensible. I didn’t think I was in any danger, but I couldn’t help myself—I had to map out the hotel and its surroundings to start feeling safe.

Once in my room, I took off all my clothes to take a shower. What I saw then stunned me. Under the leather bracelet was a tattoo. I stared in disbelief at the design on my left forearm. A three-spoked wheel was etched into my skin. It had been there all day; I had rolled up my sleeves several times and had even taken off my sweater for the medical exam. I couldn’t have missed this tattoo—but I hadn’t paid attention. It was as if it was so much a part of me that I didn’t even notice it anymore. 

Yet I had never gotten a tattoo. 

I sighed. Everything I believed was false, all part of the lie I had invented about my life. At least this tattoo was a first clue.

Then I carefully examined my clothes for information. They were of average quality, with no useful details.

I took a shower. The warmth of the water felt good, relaxing my sore, bruised body. I was slowly recovering from the incident that morning. Apparently, I was in excellent physical shape. I flexed my muscles under the water. I had the memory of training regularly—at least my body confirmed those memories.

I turned on the TV—an antique. A conflict was happening somewhere, politicians were debating a new, incomprehensible law, an old movie was playing on another channel, old music videos, cartoons—everything felt so unreal. I turned off the set.

Before going to bed, I opened the window to let the night air in. I felt like I was suffocating in the closed room. I lay on the bed to sleep; I felt so tired—exhausted, really. It had been a very long day. And almost immediately, I sank into sleep.

I woke up two hours later, shivering, with the sensation of having gone through one nightmare after another. I went to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a dark shape in the mirror—and before I could turn around, a tremendous force slammed me against the bathroom wall, knocking me off balance. My fist hit the mirror, which shattered into a hundred pieces, with shards embedding in my hand, making me cry out in pain.

And I woke up screaming.

I immediately looked at my hand to see that I wasn’t injured. My gaze swept the room—I was alone. I jumped out of bed and checked that the door was still double-locked, then went to the bathroom. The mirror was intact. It was just a bad dream. But why was my heart still racing? My hand still felt sore, as if the shards were still lodged in it. It had seemed so real—so incredibly real.

I needed air. The warmth of my room was suffocating. I got dressed and left the hotel. 

The night was cool. I took a deep breath. I looked up and saw a gibbous moon struggling through the light pollution of the city. Near it, a small, bright point—Saturn—was barely visible but present.

I stayed outside for the rest of the night. I couldn’t bring myself to go back in. The feeling that someone could enter and attack me by surprise at any moment lingered as an unpleasant sensation at the edge of my mind. I no longer felt safe there. Gradually, the night lightened, giving way to dawn. The first rays of the cold winter sun pierced through, creating a grayish mix. I used the last hours of dawn to think.

I was at an impasse; my true identity remained a mystery. Something had happened—something serious enough to deeply affect my mind, my memory, my sense of self. 

But what ? What could have caused such a shock? An attack? The actions of a third party?

I was furious with myself for choosing the easy way out—altering my memory instead of facing the truth. Should I return to the hospital or just rest? I was a man of action, I felt it in my gut. Waiting wasn’t in my nature. I needed a goal. 

At dawn, the mission presented itself.

Several men were heading toward the hotel entrance. I watched them from the shadows of a corner in the parking lot where I had been sitting to think. There was something familiar about these men—their walk, their posture. I was far away, but I thought I recognized one of them. Then a rush of adrenaline coursed through my body, and I jumped to my feet, all my senses on high alert. Short-cropped hair, long coat, determined gait—it was the man who had chased me the day before, claiming to be a police officer.

How had he found me? Why was he looking for me? Who were the other men?