Decommissioned
Chapter 1: Awakening
A sound. Sharp, metallic, distant.
It drags me up from the thick, dark water of unconsciousness. My body feels heavy, like gravity has doubled. Something cold presses against my cheek—smooth, hard, unyielding. The scent of antiseptic fills my nostrils, sharp and astringent, tangled with the faint undercurrent of something metallic. Blood?
My eyelids refuse to obey at first. Then, with effort, they lift. The world swims in and out of focus, like a camera lens struggling to find its subject. A ceiling. White panels. Fluorescent lights flickering in rhythm with the pounding in my skull.
I breathe in—ragged, too loud, too unfamiliar.
I try to move. A mistake. Muscles scream in protest, stiff like they haven’t been used in days. My fingers twitch against a cool, paper-like surface—hospital sheets. A bed. The realization pools in slow, like syrup at the bottom of a cup. I am in a hospital.
Why?
A jolt of panic surges through me. I force my neck to turn, scanning the room. Monitors hum beside me, their screens pulsing with lines and numbers I don’t understand. An IV snakes from my arm, the tape securing it digging into my skin.
My skin. My arm. My…
The thought sends a fresh wave of unease rolling through my stomach.
Who am I?
The question hits like a slap. I suck in a breath, but the air tastes wrong—sterile, lifeless. My heart hammers. My own name sits just beyond reach, a word I should know but can’t grasp.
Think. Think.
A noise outside. Footsteps. Soft-soled shoes against tile. The creak of a door hinge.
I turn my head—too fast. The room tilts, colors blurring. A woman stands in the doorway, clipboard in hand, her lips forming a cautious smile.
“You’re awake,” she says. Her voice is warm, but there’s something rehearsed about it.
I swallow, my throat raw. I try to speak, but only a hoarse whisper comes out.
“Where…?”
“You’re in St. Jude’s Medical Center. You were brought in four days ago.”
Four days?
A memory tries to surface. Something wet. Cold. The sensation of falling—fast, uncontrollable. Water closing over my head.
My pulse spikes. My fingers dig into the sheets.
“Do you remember what happened?” she asks.
I open my mouth, but no words come. My mind is a void, a vast expanse of nothing.
No name. No history.
Only the drowning.
And even that… I’m not sure if it’s real.
Chapter 2: Fractures
The woman—nurse, doctor, something official—watches me too closely, like she expects me to shatter.
I swallow hard, trying to wet my throat, but it’s like sandpaper. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I want water. I want answers.
“Do you know your name?” she asks.
The question sends a slow, creeping dread through me. My name. I should know it. It’s supposed to be instinctive, automatic.
I dig inside my mind, clawing for something solid, but it’s like sifting through smoke.
Nothing.
My chest tightens.
“I—” My voice cracks. I shake my head.
Her face shifts. Not surprise. Not really. Pity.
I hate it.
“That’s okay,” she says, flipping a page on her clipboard like she just needs to move past this part. “You suffered a head injury. Temporary memory loss isn’t unusual in cases like yours.”
Cases like mine.
“What happened to me?”
She hesitates. Just for a second. But I see it.
She knows something.
“You were found unconscious near the waterfront,” she says, carefully. “No ID. No phone. Just you, soaking wet and barely breathing.”
The drowning.
A flash—too fast to grab—of freezing water crushing my lungs, of darkness swallowing me whole. My fingers twitch. My skin prickles with the phantom sensation of being submerged.
“You’re lucky,” she continues. “Someone pulled you out. A jogger called 911. If they hadn’t…”
She doesn’t finish the sentence, but she doesn’t need to.
I would have died.
A chill seeps into me, curling around my ribs.
“Did I fall?” I ask, my own voice sounding far away. “Was I… pushed?”
The possibility hadn’t fully formed until I said it. But now it hangs between us, heavy and real.
Her expression doesn’t change, but something shifts behind her eyes.
“We don’t know,” she says.
A lie.
Or at least, not the full truth.
I push myself up, ignoring the ache in my muscles. The movement makes my vision smear at the edges. Too fast. Too weak.
She places a firm hand on my shoulder. “Easy. You need to rest.”
I breathe in through my nose, trying to steady myself. Sterile air. The faint sting of rubbing alcohol. Beneath it, something else—my own skin, stale with sweat and the faintest hint of saltwater.
I drowned. I almost died.
And I have no idea who I am.
Panic claws at my throat. I fight it down.
“Do the police know?” I ask. “Are they looking for me?”
She hesitates again. Less than a second. But I catch it.
“They’re aware of your case.”
Another non-answer.
A sick feeling coils in my stomach.
“Did anyone come looking for me?” I press. “Family? Friends?”
A slow shake of her head.
I exhale sharply. The sound feels too loud in the too-quiet room.
No one is looking for me.
No one knows I’m missing.
Or worse—someone does.
And they want me to stay lost.
Chapter 3: The First Thread
The silence stretches between us. I feel it pressing in on my skin, thick and heavy, filling the gaps where answers should be.
The nurse—doctor?—shifts on her feet, her clipboard tucked against her chest like a shield. She keeps her voice soft, careful. Too careful.
“Memory loss like this can be disorienting,” she says. “But sometimes it returns in pieces. Small flashes. Have you remembered anything at all?”
I don’t answer right away.
I have remembered something—cold water, crushing weight, the raw instinct to fight for air. But the memory isn’t solid. It’s slippery, untrustworthy, like an old photograph with its edges burned away. I don’t know if it’s real or just my brain filling in the blanks.
I need something tangible. Something undeniable.
“No,” I lie.
She doesn’t look surprised. She just nods like it’s what she expected.
“That’s okay. Rest will help. So will time.”
Time.
That word again.
It’s starting to feel like a trap.
I glance at the window. The blinds are tilted just enough to let in a sliver of the outside world. Gray skies. Blurred figures moving beyond the rain-streaked glass. Muffled city noise hums beneath it all, distant yet constant.
I don’t recognize it.
Or maybe I do.
A pressure builds behind my eyes, something just out of reach, pressing against the inside of my skull. My stomach turns. I need to get out of here.
I look back at the woman.
“Is there a mirror?”
She hesitates. Just for a fraction of a second. But I see it.
“Not in here.”
A lie.
I don’t know how I know, but I know.
I throw off the sheet and swing my legs over the bed. A mistake. White-hot nausea punches through me, my vision smearing at the edges. My body feels wrong—too heavy, too slow, like it doesn’t belong to me.
She steps in, pressing a firm hand against my shoulder.
“Take it easy,” she says. “You’ve been unconscious for days. You need to adjust.”
I shove her hand off.
“I need a mirror.”
Another pause.
Then, finally, she sighs and moves to the bedside drawer. I hear it slide open, the faint rustle of paper inside. Then she turns back to me, holding a small, silver compact mirror.
I snatch it from her hand, my fingers trembling. My pulse is a dull roar in my ears as I flip it open.
A stranger stares back at me.
Dark eyes, rimmed with exhaustion. A face too pale, too thin. A faint bruise along my temple, yellowing at the edges. Stubble shadows my jaw, uneven like I’ve been left unshaven for days.
But it’s the wrongness that makes my stomach clench.
I study the sharp angle of my cheekbones, the line of my nose, the shape of my mouth. It should mean something. It should feel familiar.
It doesn’t.
It’s like looking at a badly drawn sketch of a person I might have known once. The proportions are right, but the soul is missing.
A tremor runs through my fingers, and the mirror shakes in my grip.
I slam it shut.
The nurse watches me carefully, like she’s gauging my reaction.
There’s something she isn’t telling me.
I take a slow breath, pushing the panic down. I don’t have time for it.
I turn to her.
“What else aren’t you telling me?”
She doesn’t answer.
But she doesn’t have to.
I already know—there’s more. A lot more.
And I’m going to find out.
Chapter 4: Signs and Omissions
I don’t break eye contact with her.
She doesn’t look away either, but something shifts in her posture—a flicker of hesitation, the smallest crack in her careful mask.
I caught her off guard.
Good.
“You’re keeping something from me,” I say. My voice is low, steady, but I feel the tension vibrating under my skin. “What is it?”
The nurse—doctor—whatever she is—keeps her expression neutral.
“I’ve told you everything you need to know right now.”
Right now.
That choice of words stands out, sharp and deliberate.
Not everything.
Just what she thinks I need at this moment.
I lean forward slightly, ignoring the way my muscles protest. “Then tell me the rest.”
She exhales slowly, and for a second, I think she’s going to break. But then she straightens, slipping back into the clinical detachment of someone who does this every day.
“I understand this is frustrating,” she says, her tone even, rehearsed. “But you need to focus on your recovery. Pushing too hard won’t help.”
It’s a non-answer. A deflection.
It makes my skin crawl.
I grip the edge of the bed. The room feels too small, the walls pressing in. I force myself to think through the haze of exhaustion, pain, and whatever drugs are still in my system.
“You said I had no ID,” I say. “No phone. No personal belongings.”
She nods.
“Then how do you know I was in the water?”
A beat of silence.
She recovers quickly—too quickly.
“You were soaked when they found you.”
That’s not what I asked.
I narrow my eyes. “But no one saw me go in?”
Another pause.
“We don’t have all the details yet,” she says smoothly.
Lie.
She knows more than she’s letting on.
A sharp ringing cuts through the room before I can press her further. She glances at the device clipped to her scrubs—a pager.
“I have to check on another patient,” she says, already stepping toward the door. “We can talk more later.”
She doesn’t wait for a response.
The door clicks shut behind her.
And just like that, I’m alone again.
I need to get out of here.
The hospital suddenly feels wrong. Too clean. Too controlled. Too much like a cage.
I take a slow, measured breath, forcing my mind to settle.
Think. What do I know?
I woke up here, with no memory of who I am.
I was found near the waterfront.
I was soaked, but no one saw how I got there.
No ID, no phone, nothing to tell me who I am.
She’s lying.
That last one feels like the only thing I can be sure of.
I scan the room again, this time looking for anything useful.
My eyes land on the bedside table. There’s a plastic cup of water, a notepad, and a cheap blue hospital pen resting on top.
And beside them—
A folded piece of paper.
I reach for it, my hands unsteady. My pulse pounds against my skull as I unfold it carefully.
The writing is rushed, almost illegible. Just a few words, scrawled in thick black ink:
DON’T TRUST THEM. THEY’RE WATCHING.
Chapter 5: A Number in the Dark
I stare at the numbers pressed into the paper, my breath shallow.
A phone number.
Not a name. Not an address. Just a string of digits left behind by someone who knew I’d find it.
Someone who knew I’d need it.
My pulse hammers in my ears. I run my thumb over the indentations, the ink long gone, but the message still there. Waiting.
I don’t know who wrote it.
But I know one thing: whoever left this wanted me to call.
And I will.
But not from here.
I crumple the note in my fist, pressing it tight against my palm before slipping it under the thin hospital sheet. My hand is still shaking.
A noise outside.
Footsteps.
Not soft like the nurse’s.
Heavier. Slower. Deliberate.
I stiffen, listening. The steps pause just outside my door.
Someone’s standing there.
I don’t move.
I barely breathe.
A shadow shifts under the doorframe.
Whoever it is, they aren’t coming in.
They’re just watching.
The seconds stretch. My fingers twitch against the sheets. The air in the room feels thin, too light, too stale.
Then—
The footsteps move away.
A slow exhale slips from my lips. But my skin is still tight, my muscles braced.
I was right.
I’m not just a patient in this hospital.
I’m being kept here.
And someone—someone besides the nurse—wants to make sure I stay.
No More Waiting.
I push myself up again, slower this time, fighting through the dead weight of my muscles. The dizziness slams into me like a fist, but I grit my teeth and plant my feet on the floor.
Bare skin on cold tile. The sharp chill jolts through me, snapping my senses into focus.
I scan the room again, but it’s the same sterile, stripped-down space.
No clothes. No shoes. No belongings.
I move to the window instead. The blinds block most of my view, but through the gaps, I see the street far below. Wet pavement. The glow of streetlights. Cars moving in slow pulses. No. Not cars. Jeeps. Black. Hummers. Also black. Moving with military precision. But no. Not military. Something else. Something darker.
I’m on a base. Clandestine.
I don’t know if this is home.
I don’t know if I belong here.
But right now, it’s suffocating me. I don’t belong here. I’m not a patient. I’m a prisoner. Why?
I glance at the door. No lock on my side. No way to secure it. If I leave, someone will see me. Instinctively I know it’s locked. impenetrable. This is all a setup. But why?
My pulse kicks up again.
I need information. I need to know what I’m into.
I scan the bedside table one more time. No phone. No way to dial.
But—
The monitor.
The heart rate machine. The IV pump. The vitals tracker. All hospital tech, all linked to the system. I don’t know how I know this, but I know how to use the equipment to access the main terminal.
If I can access it— if I can pull up my own records—maybe I can find out who admitted me.
Who brought me here.
Who wants me to stay.
I step closer, wincing as the IV tugs at my arm. The machine screen glows a dull green.
Just numbers. Heart rate, oxygen levels, standard readouts.
But near the bottom—
A name.
Not mine.
Not a patient’s.
Dr. Ethan Calloway.
My heart stutters.
Not the nurse. Someone else.
Someone who put their name on my file.
Who is he?
I don’t know.
But if I can find him—
I can find out who I am.
Chapter 6: The Truth
That name.
Dr. Ethan Calloway.
It sits on the glowing screen, small and unassuming, but it feels like a detonator wired to something big.
Something dangerous.
The name means nothing to me.
But it should.
If he admitted me, he knows who I am.
A fresh pulse of adrenaline cuts through the haze in my body.
I need to find him.
But first—I need to get out.
I rip the IV from my arm. Pain spikes through me, but I barely register it. A thin trail of blood rolls down my wrist. I press my palm against it, forcing myself to focus.
No time to waste.
I scan the room one last time. Still no clothes. No shoes. No phone.
They took everything from me before I even woke up.
Which means they don’t want me leaving.
I press my ear to the door.
The hall outside is quiet.
Too quiet.
I test the handle—locked. As I suspected.
I search the drawers again. I find a paperclip. It will have to do.
That’s either a mistake or a trap. Why would these sorts of people leave me a paperclip. They know what I can do.
Wait. Why do they know what I can do? I don’t even know what I can do. But now that seems important.
I don’t care. I can’t. I have to move. Now!
I don’t know why but I trust my instinct. It’s all I have right now. I manipulate the paper clip into the lock. My mind doesn’t consciously know what I am doing, but my hands do. How?
In what seems to be only a few moments, the lock clicks and the door swings open. instinctively I drop to the floor and look out from as low as possible. If they have guns, they will be looking for me at eye level. Who is “they?” Why do I know this? I don’t know, but the hallway is clear.
I step into the hallway.
Fluorescent lights hum above me, buzzing like static in my skull. The walls stretch out in both directions—sterile white, lined with identical doors.
Too many places to be watched from.
I keep my head down, moving quickly. The tile is ice beneath my bare feet, but I ignore it.
Find the exit.
I round a corner—and freeze.
A man in scrubs stands near the nurse’s station.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Short-cropped hair.
Not the same woman who was watching me.
His back is to me.
I move before I can think. Fast.
He barely has time to turn before my fist connects with his jaw.
A sickening crack reverberates up my arm.
He staggers, his body slamming into the counter.
I don’t wait for him to recover.
I grab his ID badge before he hits the ground—and run.
Heavy footsteps behind me.
Someone shouts.
I shove through the stairwell door, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts. I half-stumble, half-fall down the concrete steps, gripping the railing to keep myself upright.
Second floor.
First.
Ground level.
I slam into the last door, expecting it to open into the main lobby.
It doesn’t.
I freeze.
Not an exit.
A restricted area.
Cold, sterile air wraps around me like plastic. The scent of antiseptic and something fainter, metallic, lingering beneath it.
A lab.
Glass partitions line the walls, dimly lit rooms beyond them.
And at the far end—
A wall of patient photos.
I step closer, barely breathing.
Rows of headshots. Men. Women. Children.
At the bottom of each photo—
Dates. Medical tags.
Some crossed out in red.
Some of them missing entirely.
And then—
My own face.
My stomach turns to ice.
I pull the file beneath it.
SUBJECT 47
NAME: [REDACTED]
My vision blurs.
They know my name.
They erased it.
I flip the page.
The second entry makes my breath catch.
STATUS: TERMINATED
A sharp sound behind me.
Footsteps.
Close.
I whirl.
Dr. Ethan Calloway.
He looks at me, calm.
Unbothered.
Like he’s been waiting.
“You’re not supposed to be awake yet,” he says.
My pulse slams against my ribs.
I want to run. I want to fight. But I need answers.
I grip the file, my breath coming sharp and uneven.
“What is this? Who am I?”
He sighs, like I’m a slow student struggling with an obvious lesson.
“You were part of a project,” he says. “We took people like you, erased your past, and rewired you.”
The words hit like a fist to the gut.
Erased. Rewired.
“What was I before?” I ask, but I already know the answer is worse than I want it to be.
His gaze doesn’t waver.
“A weapon.”
The floor tilts under me.
I shake my head.
“That’s not—”
But my mind betrays me.
A memory surfaces, sharp and sudden.
A different room. A metal table. A gun in my hand.
A voice in my ear:
No hesitation. No remorse. You belong to us.
In a flash of memory, the gun fires.
A body drops.
I stagger back, slamming into the patient board. Photos flutter to the floor.
It’s true.
I don’t know who I was before. But I know what I did.
“You were supposed to stay sedated,” Calloway says, stepping toward me. “You were decommissioned. All we were waiting for was the termination order. How did you wake up?”
I see it now—the drowning, the erased records, the missing personal effects.
They weren’t saving me.
They were shelving me. Not ending me. Not yet. But they were definitely in control.
My hands tremble. The file slips from my grip.
I think of the note: “Don’t trust them. They’re watching.”
The nurse! She must be why I woke up. No other explanation.
“Decommissioned? Why am I still alive?” I whisper.
Calloway tilts his head.
“Good question.”
Then—he moves.
I react before I can think.
My body remembers what my mind doesn’t.
My hand finds a scalpel on the desk. My weight shifts. My muscles coil.
And when he lunges—
I bury the blade into his throat, I rip at the blade to widen the hole.
A wet gasp. His eyes widen. Blood spills hot and fast over my hands. I rip further. An artery. blood sprays like a sprinkler in summer. I drop him.
I don’t stop to watch him fall.
I run.
Through the lab. Past the glass rooms. Through the emergency exit, where the alarm screams into the night.
And then—
I’m outside.
Cold air rips through me. The streetlights glow against the rain-slick pavement.
I stagger forward, my mind a chaotic mess of shattered pieces.
I don’t know who I was.
But I know who I am now.
I am a ghost.
A mistake.
A weapon they tried to erase.
I dive into a parked jeep. I rip out the plastic surrounding the steering wheel—instinct. I cannot remember ever hot-wiring a vehicle, but I hot-wire this one faster than most people can turn a key. I slam the gear into drive and I punch the accelerator just as a bullet shatters the back window. An alarm sounds just as I punch through a side fence. Catching up with me will take them some time—maybe enough time to get another few steps ahead—to figure out who I am.
But that will have to come later. I don’t know who I may not know who I am right now— but I do know what I am—a decommissioned weapon—a science experiment.
And their experiment just got out of the lab.