Chapter Text
My head is going to explode.
That’s my first coherent thought.
Not where am I, not what happened—just pure, immediate, overwhelming pain.
It feels like someone took a hammer to the inside of my skull and then decided to keep going for fun.
I groan, low and miserable, pressing my face deeper into the pillow. Bad idea. Everything spins.
“Okay,” I mumble into the fabric, voice rough, dry. “Okay. This fucking sucks…”
Slowly—very slowly—I try to open my eyes. Light. Too much light. I squint immediately, hissing slightly as my brain protests the concept of existence.
This is not my apartment. That realization comes in pieces. The bed is too soft. The sheets — white like snow — are too smooth. There’s a faint smell of something expensive and clean instead of… whatever my place usually smells like.
I blink again, forcing my eyes to adjust. Ceiling I don’t recognize. Walls I don’t recognize. Everything is wrong.
“…what the hell…”
I shift slightly. And immediately freeze. Because something else is wrong. Very wrong. I am not wearing anything. At all. My usual pajamas? Replaced with bare skin.
I go very, very still. Brain buffering.
“…what.”
I lift the blanket just slightly. Confirm. No shirt, no pants. Just my naked body in all its nakedness. I drop it immediately like it burned me.
“What the fuck?”
Okay.
Okay.
Breath Juliette.
Breath.
Think
Not ideal.
Not great.
But maybe—maybe this is salvageable. Maybe I’ll suddenly remember everything. Maybe I just got incredibly drunk for whatever reason…?
No. Don’t think about it.
Get up.
Find clothes.
Pretend this never happened. Easy. Simple. Manageable.
I inhale slowly. Try to sit up— and then I hear it.
A sound.
Soft.
Right next to me. A shift. Fabric moving. Breathing that isn’t mine.
I freeze.
Every muscle locking.
No.
No no no no no—
I am begging to every deity I can think of that this is just a dream.
I turn my head. There’s someone else in the bed. Another woman.
Short dark brown hair, slightly messy from sleep and a little curly. Her skin is pale, almost like porcelain surrounded by the sheets. Face relaxed, breathing slowly, peacefully.
Except I am anything but peaceful. Because just like me, she is completely bare. The blanket doing little in the way of covering her. I make a small involuntary squeak, panic flooding my system.
Her eyes — emerald green — flutter open.
Slow at first.
Then—
sharp.
Wide.
Immediate awareness crashing in.
We stare at each other. A beat. Two. Three. And then— she looks down. Then back up at me. Then down again. Her entire body goes rigid.
“…what,” she says.
Flat. Controlled. And completely, utterly confused.
Then— “WHAT?”
I grab the sheets defensively, as if that will somehow help whatever this is supposed to be. “I swear I don’t know anything!” I start, then immediately stop because that makes my head feel worse. “I am so completely lost.”
“What the hell is going on?” She says quickly.
Like she’s trying to get ahead of the situation. Her eyes dart around the room. Assessing. Calculating. Then back to me. Then—
“…why are you here?”
“Why am I here?!” I shout, clutching the blanket tighter. “Why are you here?!”
“That is what I am attempting to determine.”
“Oh great, fantastic, detective mode, love that for you—”
“Do not panic,” she says.
“I am past panic!”
She ignores that. Of course she does. Her gaze narrows slightly. Studying me. Like I’m part of the problem she needs to solve.
Rude.
“I need to establish baseline information,” she says.
I stare at her. “…baseline—”
“Do you know who I am?”
I blink. Because— what?
“…no,” I say. “Absolutely not.”
She exhales. A small, almost relieved sound. “…good.”
I stare at her.
“Good?!”
She nods once. Completely serious.
“Because I have zero knowledge of who you are.”
…
I close my eyes briefly.
“Great,” I mumble. “Perfect. Love that. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”
She starts clutching the sheet as well, beginning to tug it towards her which makes my defensive shield start to slip away.
I tug back
Pause.
Tug.
Pause.
Tug harder.
We end up frozen, each holding one side of it like it’s a negotiation. Neither of us willing to let go. Neither of us making eye contact anymore.
“…we need a system,” I say weakly.
“No, we need answers,” she shoots back, voice tight, breathing too fast.
Her eyes flick up to mine. Narrow. Suspicious.
Oh no.
“Oh no,” I say out loud.
“What do you mean ‘oh no’?”
“That look,” I say. “Don’t do that look.”
“What look?”
“That one. The ‘you did this’ look.”
“I am not—” She stops. Squints at me. “You are the only variable I currently cannot account for.”
“I am not a variable!”
“You are in my bed.”
“This is not your bed!”
“We don’t know that!”
“We don’t know anything!”
“That is exactly the problem!”
She points at me with the hand that is not desperately holding onto the blanket. “Identity?”
“Juliette Hayes.” I shoot back immediately. “Twenty seven year old.”
“Estelle Fisher, twenty four” She answers back before asking again, “last confirmed memory?”
“Airport,” Chicago. I was going to—” I stop myself. Swallow. “Anyway. Airport.”
Her expression flickers. “…same,” she says.
A beat. We both process that.
“…okay that’s not a lot to go by,” I whisper.
She nods once. Quick. Sharp. “Agreed.”
Then her eyes narrow again. “However.”
Oh come on.
“However,” she repeats, “statistically, it is unlikely that two individuals independently lose memory and wake up in the same location without external influence.”
“Yes, I know, that sounds bad—”
“And you are here.”
“I am also confused!” I gesture wildly, nearly losing my grip on the sheet in the process. “And naked! Very importantly, also naked!”
“That does not eliminate you as a potential cause.”
“What would I even have done?!”
“I don’t know yet,” she snaps, then winces sharply, hand flying to her temple. She inhales through her teeth. “…headache,” she mutters.
“Yeah,” I say immediately. “Yeah, same. Very same.”
We both go still for a second. Just breathing. Trying not to make it worse. The tension dips. Just slightly. She exhales slowly. Shoulders lowering a fraction. When she looks back at me, the suspicion is still there—but it’s… more contained now. Less explosive. More focused. Her gaze flicks around the room. Door. Curtains. Nightstand. Me. Assessing.
“This suggests a sequence of events,” she says, voice steadier now—like she’s forcing it there, “that we are both missing.”
I blink. “…yeah.”
We sit there for another second. Staring. Breathing. Clutching the blanket like it’s legally binding. Her eyes narrow again—less accusatory this time. More… calculating.
“…it is statistically improbable,” she says slowly, “that you orchestrated this while also exhibiting genuine confusion, disorientation, and lack of environmental awareness.”
I blink. “…thank you?” We’re getting somewhere?
She nods once. “You are probably not responsible.”
I stare at her. “Probably?!”
“I am leaving margin for error.”
“I don’t like that margin!”
“It is necessary.”
I let out a long, exhausted sigh, dragging a hand down my face. “Okay. Great. Love that for me. I’m probably innocent.”
I shift slightly, wincing as my head reminds me it still exists. “Screw this. Phone. I need my phone.” I pat the bed. The sheets. Under the pillow.
Nothing.
I check the other side, awkwardly leaning without letting go of the blanket. Still nothing.
“Oh for fucks sake—this is bad.”
“Agreed,” she says immediately, already scanning her side with quick, precise movements. “No visible electronic devices. No personal effects. No identification.” She checks under her pillow. Then the nightstand. Then the floor—well, as much as she can see from here. “…nothing,” she concludes.
I let out a hollow laugh. “Amazing. Fantastic. Love this.”
A pause.
Then— “You should investigate.”
I blink at her.
“What do you mean I should investigate?? I’m naked!”
“You might find clues,” she says, like that’s obvious. “And you are the closest to the door. I am adjacent to the wall.”
I stare at her.
“Those are not the deciding factors here!”
“They are relevant factors.”
“I’M NAKED.”
“Yes,” she says, as if confirming a data point.
“Which means I’m not going out there!”
She considers that. Very seriously. “…fine,” she says at last. “We go together.”
A beat. “With the bedsheets.”
I close my eyes briefly.
“This is a nightmare.”
Getting out of the bed is, somehow, worse than being in it.
We attempt coordination. We fail immediately.
The sheet pulls one way, then the other, then nearly slips entirely before both of us grab it in a panic, which results in us standing far too close for comfort, wrapped in the same piece of fabric like some deeply dysfunctional two-person toga.
“…this is inefficient,” she mutters.
“This is humiliating,” I correct.
We shuffle. Sideways. Very slowly. Every step is careful, deliberate, like the floor might betray us.
She keeps one hand gripping the sheet, the other slightly extended like she’s ready to fend off… something. I don’t know what. A threat? Reality? I’m mostly focused on not flashing a complete stranger.
We make it approximately three steps before the sheet slips again.
“—no—!”
“Hold it!”
“I am holding it!”
“You are not holding it effectively!”
“I am doing my best!”
We freeze again, readjust, and continue. By the time we reach the middle of the room, I am reconsidering every life decision that led me here.
We look around.
Nothing.
Suitcase? No.
Shoes? No.
Anything remotely helpful? Absolutely not.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay, great, empty room, love that—”
“There,” she says suddenly.
I follow her gaze. Bathroom door. Closed. Of course.
“Right,” I say. “Perfect. The mysterious bathroom. That’s not ominous at all.”
She steps forward. Carefully. Still clutching the sheet.
Reaches for the handle.
Pauses.
“…if something is in there,” she says quietly, “we will need to react quickly.”
“Nothing is in there,” I say immediately. “There is nothing in there. It’s a bathroom. A normal bathroom. With normal bathroom things.”
She opens the door. Revealing it is, in fact, a completely normal bathroom. Sink. Mirror. Towels.
And— Clothes. On the floor. A lot of clothes.
We both stare.
“…oh thank god,” I breathe.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t relax. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, studying the scene.
“The garments are centralized,” she murmurs. “Not scattered randomly.”
I blink. “…they’re on the floor.”
“Yes,” she says. “But in a contained distribution pattern.”
I turn to look at her. “You’re kidding.”
“This suggests,” she continues, ignoring me completely, “that they were removed in a deliberate sequence. Possibly by a third party.”
I stare at her. “Or,” I say slowly, “we took them off.”
She doesn’t even look at me. “That remains unverified.”
I groan, already stepping forward.
“What are you doing?!” she snaps instantly.
I crouch, grabbing the nearest piece of fabric. “My clothes! I’m putting my clothes on! I am done being naked!”
“You are tampering with evidence!”
“Evidence?!” I hold up what is very clearly a piece of my outfit. “These are my clothes!”
“That has not been conclusively—”
“I recognize them!”
“That is anecdotal!”
“I am a little tired of being naked around a stranger!”
That lands. She pauses. Actually pauses.
Then, quieter: “…that is a reasonable concern.”
I don’t even respond. I’m already pulling the fabric closer like it might disappear if I wait too long. Behind me, she hovers—visibly torn between stopping me …and very clearly also wanting clothes.
Eventually, she gives in and starts grabbing her own clothes. We don’t look at each other. Not once. There’s an unspoken agreement—fragile, sacred—that eye contact would make everything worse. So we move in parallel.
I put what I’m fairly certain is mine—jeans, shirt, something that resembles underwear—and turn slightly away as I pull things on as quickly as possible, movements clumsy but determined. Fabric against skin has never felt this reassuring. Behind me, I can hear her doing the same. Quick, efficient movements. No hesitation. Like getting dressed is just another task to complete.
There’s a moment where we both shift at the same time and nearly turn toward each other— We both immediately pivot away like magnets repelling.
Silence. Clothes rustling. Breathing evening out. And then— I exhale. Long. Deep. Entirely from the soul.
“Oh my god.”
I press a hand to my chest like I’ve just survived something life-threatening. “That was,” I say, shaking my head, “far too horrifying for one lifetime.” I tug my shirt down, smoothing it like I need visual confirmation that yes, I am clothed, this is real, this is happening.
“I would like,” I continue, very seriously, “to remain clothed for the rest of my life.”
Behind me, there’s a small pause. “…that is statistically achievable,” she says.
I glance over my shoulder. She’s crouched. Of course she is. Still in the bathroom. Still focused. Still scanning the floor like something might materialize if she stares hard enough.
“…what are you doing?” I ask.
“Reassessing the scene,” she replies without looking up.
I stare at her. “You mean the bathroom floor.”
“Yes.”
“You mean the bathroom floor that now has significantly less ‘evidence’ because I committed the crime of putting on my own clothes.”
She ignores that.
“There are no additional items,” she says instead. “No phones. No wallets. No identification. No bags.”
I feel something sink in my stomach.
“…yeah,” I say quietly. “I noticed that part.”
“That is deeply concerning.”
“Yep.”
She finally looks up at me. “For two individuals to be transported internationally without documentation—”
“Okay, pause,” I cut in, holding up a hand. “We don’t know that we were transported.”
“We woke up in an unfamiliar location with no memory and no personal effects.”
“That could still be us being very drunk!”
“That would require access to passports.”
“…right.”
A beat. We both think about that. I don’t like where that goes. Losing a passport is a terrible hassle…
She straightens slightly, still crouched but now very much in full analysis mode. “This implies external intervention.”
I close my eyes briefly. “Or,” I say, with the patience of someone hanging on by a thread, “we lost our stuff.”
“Both of us,” she counters immediately.
“Yes.”
“In the same way.”
“Yes.”
“In an unknown location.”
“Yes!”
“That is unlikely.”
I open my eyes and look at her. “You know what else is unlikely? Waking up naked next to a stranger with no memory. And yet—” I gesture vaguely between us, “—here we are.”
She considers that. Actually considers it.
“…unlikely events can co-occur,” she admits.
“Thank you.”
“But that does not invalidate the possibility of corporate espionage or targeted abduction.”
I stare at her. “…corporate espionage.”
“Yes.”
“For what possible reason would anyone kidnap me for corporate espionage?”
“I don’t know your background,” she says immediately. “You could be a high-value target.”
“I teach English.”
She pauses. Just for a fraction of a second.
“…that does not eliminate the possibility.”
“It eliminates a lot of it!”
“It reduces probability,” she concedes. “Not to zero.”
I drag a hand down my face. “Okay. Great. Fantastic. So my options are: I ruined my own life in a blackout, or I’ve been kidnapped in some kind of international conspiracy.”
“Yes.”
I stare at her. “You see how neither of those is comforting.”
“I am aware.”
A beat. She looks back at the floor. Like maybe, just maybe, the missing answers are hiding between the tiles.
“…we need more data,” she mutters.
I lean against the doorframe, arms folding loosely. “Yeah,” I say. “We do.”
I pause. Then add, with a tired sigh: “…preferably data that does not involve me being a suspect in your spy thriller.”
Eventually she relocates. From bathroom floor investigator… to bed-based investigator.
Estelle climbs back onto the bed like it’s some kind of command center, sitting upright, legs crossed, posture oddly composed considering everything that has happened in the last ten minutes.
I stay where I am. Leaning against the wall. Arms loosely folded, head tipped back just slightly, eyes half-closed. Trying. Really trying. To remember something. Anything. Airport. Lights. Screens. People. A voice over the intercom. After that— Nothing. Just static.
“Okay,” she says.
I don’t open my eyes. “Okay what.”
“Debrief.”
I let out a long, tired sigh. “…debrief.”
“Yes.”
I crack one eye open. She’s watching me like I’m a witness in an interrogation. Of course she is.
“I don’t know you,” she starts, precise, controlled. “You don’t know me. We have no recollection of prior interaction.”
“As far as I’m aware,” I mutter, “yes.”
“What do you do for work?”
“I already told you,” I say, dragging a hand down my face. “I’m an English teacher. I teach high-schoolers. The most standard English teacher of all time. No secrets. No hidden identities. No double life.”
“Mhm,” she hums, nodding slightly. “I see. We don’t coincide at all.”
I frown. “Coincide?”
“What do you work as?” I add, pushing off the wall just a little.
She hesitates. Just a fraction.
“It’s confidential.”
I stare at her.
“…are you actually— Just say it before I do something irrational.”
A beat.
“…cybersecurity assistant.”
I blink. “Oh. Wow. I didn’t expect that.”
Her eyes narrow immediately. “What do you mean by that?”
“It’s just that—” I gesture vaguely toward her. “I pictured cybersecurity people as calm. Collected. Reasonable.”
She straightens slightly. “I am those things.”
I tilt my head.
“…ehhh.”
She stares at me.
“…never mind,” I add quickly.
A small pause. She hums again. Not convinced.
“Hmm. Next question. What were you doing prior to waking here?”
“I was at the airport,” I say. “Waiting for my flight.”
“To where?”
“Canada.”
She stills. “…interesting.”
I frown.
“What?”
“That is also very different from me,” she says. “I was headed to Berlin.”
I push off the wall fully now, arms dropping to my sides. “So what,” I say, incredulous, “we were kidnapped at the airport, flown across the world, put in a hotel in—” I gesture around, “—god knows where, and undressed against our will?”
“In my case,” she says calmly, “plausible.”
I stare at her.
“Plausible?!”
“Like I said,” she continues, unfazed, “inter-corporate conflict—”
“Why would they kidnap you,” I cut in, voice rising despite myself, “and leave you naked with a stranger?!”
“I am trying to determine that,” she snaps back, sharper now— Then immediately winces, hand going to her temple. “…and stop being so loud,” she mutters. “It hurts my head.”
The tension deflates instantly.
“Ugh—sorry,” I say, quieter, wincing in sympathy. “Yeah. Same.”
A beat. We both sit in it. Headaches. Missing memories. Missing everything.
Then she exhales slowly, eyes reopening with that same stubborn focus. “…there is a gap,” she says.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “A pretty big one.”
“Between airport and current location.”
“Yep.”
She looks at me. I look back. And for the first time since waking up— There’s no accusation. No suspicion. Just the same problem. Shared.
“…we need to figure out what happened,” she says.
I nod, more to myself than to her.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “We really do.”