I swallow the cold air in the warehouse. The floor is slick with dust and rust. My heart pounds against my ribs like a trapped drum. A girl stands beside me, her grin thin as a razor. She whispers, "You’re not who you think you are." Her words feel like a curse and a key. I look at the photo in his hand. My own face, frozen in a frame that isn’t mine. The building behind me? I’ve never seen it. The date? Tomorrow. The caption? "You’re going to die." I feel my skin crawl. The scarred man’s voice is a low growl. "You’re not supposed to see this. You’re not supposed to remember." He leans closer, the scent of gun oil and cigarette smoke mingling. "We all remember, but you don’t." He flips the phone. The screen flashes a new image—an overlay of a code, a map, a pattern that looks like a lock. I hear the click of a lock being opened. A metallic clang echoes through the warehouse. The lights flicker. I feel a cold hand on my shoulder. The girl’s smile widens. "Rachel," she says, as if it were a joke. "She’s the key to everything." Her eyes flicker with something like madness. The scarred man steps forward, his jacket flaring. "You’ll pay for what you did to her." I remember the nights she whispered poison into my ear. She had the power to erase me. I remember the way I used to think I could control her. She was a storm, I was the lightning. A distant siren wafts from the city. My phone buzzes. It’s a new message. The text is a single word: "Betrayal." My pulse spikes. The scarred man raises his phone again, a new photo appears. It’s me, in a different place—a basement, a room full of monitors. Behind me, a screen flashes a countdown: 00:00:05. I spin around. The warehouse door slams shut with a thunderous bang. The lights go out. The girl’s laughter echoes, high and manic. I feel the darkness pressing in. My mind races to the last thing I remember—Rachel’s face, her eyes black as midnight. The thought is a knife. I hear a soft, mechanical whir. Something is moving. A shadow darts behind the broken concrete. A voice whispers my name, but the words are distorted, like a recording played backward. I try to scream, but my throat is a stone. The phone rings. Its ring is a high, metallic note, like a siren. The scarred man’s hand tightens on his own phone. He looks at me, eyes cold. He says, "It’s time." The lights flicker back on. The warehouse is empty except for the scarred man and the girl. I see the door, the exit, the city beyond. I see the figure from the photo, now standing in the doorway, his scar a perfect match for the scar on my left eyebrow. He steps forward, a smile spreading across his face. A sudden, sharp crack shatters the silence. The floor trembles. A bolt of lightning splits the sky outside. The scarred man turns, his eyes wide. He pulls out a gun, the barrel gl