Chapter 3

Rain, the smell of blood, and that sickening name—that's all I remember before everything went dark.

When I opened my eyes again, harsh fluorescent lights had replaced the dim yellows of the alley. I was curled up like something discarded in the waiting room, clutching my right arm encased in heavy plaster.

It was my brother, Micah.

A phone call that cut off mid-sentence had sent him tearing through the streets like a madman, searching every block until he finally found me at the end of that dark alley—lying in a pool of blood, barely clinging to life.

But this brutal assault didn't make a dent against the towering power of the Spencer family.

No police. No investigation. Damian's top-tier legal team wiped everything clean without breaking a sweat, arrogantly tossing over an obscene settlement offer in its place.

But what good was money? My right hand was nothing but a pile of shattered bones that could never be put back together. My violin career was utterly destroyed.

I leaned against the wall, my gaze empty, the piercing alarms and voices around me muffled as if by thick glass.

All I could do was shake mechanically, replaying Damian's retreating figure over and over in my mind, along with that name—the one that sounded exactly the same.

Micah had no choice but to take me back to his apartment, cold and soaked to the bone.

In the empty living room, the silence was suffocating.

I slowly lifted my head to look at my pale-faced brother, then suddenly reached out with my good left hand and grabbed his sleeve with desperate strength.

"Micah..." I forced out a broken smile, but tears fell without warning. "I have an important rehearsal with the orchestra this Thursday. I can't just stay home—can you drive me to the concert hall?"

Micah froze instantly. He stared at me with bloodshot eyes, his Adam's apple bobbing painfully.

"Celine... you're safe now..." He reached out with trembling hands, clumsily wiping the tears from my face, his voice thick with anguish. "I'm here. I'll never let anything happen to you again..."

"Micah! Please..." My emotions surged as my fingers dug into his clothes. "Take me back to the orchestra... Where's my violin? I need to practice..."

Micah finally broke.

He pressed me into the couch, wrapped me tightly in a blanket, then stumbled into the kitchen corner, covering his face as he sobbed uncontrollably.

And I sat there on the couch, listening to his muffled cries, not understanding why I felt nothing—only aware that something deep in my brain was being covered by a thick, gray fog.

Things were starting to blur.

It was like something was systematically erasing my mind, wiping away my memories bit by bit.

At first, it terrified me. But gradually, some sick part of me began to crave it—

The desire to forget that rain, that alley, that man named Damian.

Until one afternoon, staring at the empty apartment, a thought suddenly popped into my head: Micah would be off work soon. I should go out and meet him for dinner.

So I opened the door and walked out onto the street.

But when I tried to go back, I couldn't find my way home.

I circled the familiar neighborhood again and again. The high-rises, traffic lights, coffee shops—they all became one giant maze. I couldn't read the signs. Couldn't remember the apartment number.

I was lost.

Standing at the intersection, I searched my brain over and over but couldn't piece together the route back.

Panic flooded through me like a tidal wave. My left hand unconsciously clutched my plastered right arm as I trembled all over.

I didn't know who to ask for help. I could only run blindly down the street like a headless fly.

I'd completely lost control of my emotions, sprinting through those tangled alleys as if some terrible monster was chasing me.

I didn't know how long I'd have to run through this endless maze.

My heart pounded violently against my ribs. I gasped for air, tears streaming down my face, blurring my vision.

Until I turned a corner and crashed straight into a solid chest—Micah, who'd been frantically searching for me.

"Celine!" He gripped my shoulders, trying to pull me out of my hysteria.

I couldn't control the tears. I looked around wildly, babbling incoherently: "Micah, I can't find it... I can't find the way home..."

"I can't go back... Why can't I remember anything? There's something wrong with my head—what do I do, Micah..."

Like a drowning child, I sobbed uncontrollably while clutching his coat with my left hand. All the fear and despair I'd been holding in came pouring out in that moment.

"Celine!"

He cupped my face in his hands, his expression more serious and heartbroken than I'd ever seen.

"Look at me! Calm down!"

His stern voice startled me. My tears hung suspended in my eyes as I stared at him blankly.

Micah took a deep breath, profound sorrow flickering in his eyes. He softened his voice. "It's okay."

He bent down, carefully avoiding my right arm, and lifted me onto his back. "We're going to see a doctor. Everything's going to be okay."

Draped across his broad back, I knew he was suffering. I knew I was driving him crazy.

But I really had lost so many things.

That gray fog covering my brain grew heavier and heavier—so heavy I couldn't even remember how we got to the hospital. When I came back to myself, my nose was already filled with the sharp smell of disinfectant.

A cold psychiatric report was pushed across the desk.

"The evaluation points to severe PTSD, compounded by profound clinical depression."

"But she was completely lost! She couldn't even remember where we lived!" In the examination room, Micah slammed his hand on the desk, his voice shaking.

I barely heard him, just counting the ticks of the clock on the wall.

"She's experiencing dissociative amnesia, Mr. Holloway," the psychiatrist said gravely, pushing up his glasses. "When trauma is too devastating to process, the brain simply blocks it out to survive. It's an extreme defense mechanism. What kind of trauma are we dealing with here?"

Tick. Tick.

I still clutched my plastered right arm protectively, my thoughts drifting away with the movement of the second hand.

Time really flies. By my count, my birthday was only a month away. I wonder what gift Micah will give me this year.

As for that annoying guy Damian, he'll probably be lazy about it again.

Three years married, and he's never once given me a gift on my actual birthday. He always stubbornly insists on celebrating early, claiming he wants to commemorate "the day we first met."

I turned my head and smiled at Micah, who was still arguing with the doctor, poking his sleeve with my good left hand.

"Micah, what are you getting me for my birthday this year?"

The room went dead silent.

Micah froze. His fists clenched tight at his sides, then fell open in defeat a few seconds later.

He didn't know how to answer me.

Because at that moment, I'd forgotten everything.

I'd forgotten the alley that destroyed me. Forgotten my shattered violin.

Forgotten that my birthday had already passed.

And forgotten that the "first meeting" Damian stubbornly commemorated was actually Selene's birthday.

Eyes red, Micah forced out a smile uglier than crying and gently ruffled my hair.

"Whatever you want, Cece." His voice was hoarse. "I'd give you anything."

The doctor watched this tragic scene unfold and helplessly wrote out his instructions in the medical chart.

"Therapy and medication can help ground her, but we can't force the memories back. Right now, the priority is keeping her isolated from any triggers connected to her trauma."

After we got home, Micah went on a rampage through the apartment.

Violins, sheet music, concert posters—anything remotely connected to "Damian"—all of it swept into the trash.

He removed every sharp object from the house, building himself into a wall, trying to protect me completely inside this safe shell.

And I grew more and more accustomed to living inside the fog in my brain, spending entire days staring blankly out the window. Unable to remember things, my days became strangely peaceful.

Until one afternoon a few days later, when the doorbell suddenly rang.

Then a low, hoarse voice came through the door—one that made my heart stop.

"Open the door, Micah. It's me. Damian."