Naomi couldn’t stop staring at the photo.

Damien looked barely conscious.

Blood streaked down the side of his face. The chair behind him was metallic, industrial, cold.

Not random. Not improvised.

Something about it felt controlled.

Staged.

Like somebody wanted her to see it.

Elias zoomed into the background.

“Shit,” he muttered.

“What?” Naomi’s voice was tight.

“There’s a hotel logo on the wall.”

Naomi’s stomach dropped.

“This hotel?”

“Maybe. I can’t be sure from this angle.”

Silence settled between them.

Outside, Los Angeles had already started its morning noise cycle—sirens, traffic, distant helicopters. The city acting normal while something inside her was clearly not.

Naomi pulled the blanket tighter around herself.

The cold wasn’t external anymore.

It was inside her.

Her fingers tingled again.

Then her vision flickered.

Not fully blacking out—just a soft distortion at the edges, like reality losing focus.

Elias noticed immediately.

“Hey.”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly.

“Bullshit.”

Naomi pressed her palms to her eyes.

“I said I’m fine.”

But her voice didn’t sound right. It felt delayed. Detached.

Like she was hearing herself from a distance.

Then—

a memory hit.

Not clean. Not linear.

Fragments.

Room 814.

Dim lighting.

Damien shouting.

A shattered glass on the floor.

A woman crying somewhere behind him.

Naomi gasped.

The image broke instantly.

Elias stood up.

“What happened?”

“I remembered something.”

“What?”

Naomi shook her head, trying to stabilize herself.

“I don’t know. It’s just… pieces.”

Her breath felt uneven.

Like her mind was refusing to give her the full file.

Elias watched her carefully.

Then said, quieter:

“We need to leave before the press swarms downstairs.”

Naomi let out a dry laugh.

“Too late for that.”

She reached for her phone.

That was the mistake.

A video was already trending.

Naomi leaving the rooftop party.

Walking through the corridor.

Perfect posture.

Empty expression.

The comments were moving too fast to read properly, but her mind caught fragments anyway.

She definitely did something.
Why does she look so calm?
I always knew there was something off about her.

Naomi locked the screen immediately.

Her chest tightened.

A thought slipped out before she could stop it.

“Do you think people enjoy watching women fall apart?”

Elias didn’t answer immediately.

That silence was answer enough.

Of course they did.

The internet had turned female breakdowns into a genre.

Britney. Child stars. Actresses. Influencers.

Public collapse as entertainment.

Naomi exhaled sharply.

Another memory hit.

Harder this time.

Not just fragments—movement.

Damien grabbing someone.

A girl shouting:

“Get the fuck off me.”

Naomi stumbling forward.

Damien pushing her away.

Pain. Impact. Noise.

Then—

blood.

Too much blood.

Naomi doubled over.

“Fuck—”

Elias caught her before she hit the floor.

The room tilted violently.

Her body went wrong for a second—like signals misfiring.

Her left leg stopped responding completely.

Panic shot through her chest.

“I can’t feel my leg,” she whispered.

Elias’ expression shifted instantly.

Not panic.

Focus.

Sharp, controlled concern.

“We’re going to a hospital.”

“No.”

“Naomi—”

“Absolutely not.”

Her voice cracked sharper than she intended.

Because going to a hospital meant cameras.

It meant headlines.

It meant confirmation.

Elias stepped closer.

“This is not about tabloids.”

“It is when my face is already everywhere.”

Silence snapped between them.

A real one this time.

Elias didn’t speak immediately.

When he finally did, it was colder.

“Right.”

The word landed heavier than expected.

Naomi closed her eyes.

“I didn’t mean—”

“No,” he cut in. “You did.”

That hurt more than it should have.

Her phone buzzed again.

Another unknown message.

Just an address.

Under it:

Room 814 wasn’t the first time.

Naomi’s blood went cold.

Elias leaned in slightly.

“What does that mean?”

Naomi didn’t answer.

Because the flashes were returning again—but differently now.

More structured.

Less fragmented.

A girl crying in a corner.

Damien yelling.

A camera held too steady.

Someone recording.

Naomi shouting.

Not at Damien—

at someone else.

Her breath became uneven.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

Elias frowned.

“What?”

Naomi looked up at him.

Her voice barely held together.

“I think Damien hurt someone.”

Silence.

Complete.

Then Elias asked the question that changed the air entirely.

“And what if someone thinks you were involved in covering it up?”

Naomi stared at him.

Because suddenly this was no longer just about memory gaps.

Or missing people.

Or a staged photo.

It felt structured.

Designed.

A system.

And in systems like this—

people didn’t just get blamed.

They got erased.