Lucian sits in the back seat of the taxi, his eyes looking at the city rolls by outside. The rain, once relentless, has softened to a drizzle, droplets clinging to the window, distorting the neon lights beyond. He leans his head against the cool glass, watching the blurred figures of people rushing home, their umbrellas bobbing like small, fleeting shadows in the dim glow of streetlights. His reflection stares back at him, a man with no past, no certainty, only unanswered questions swirling in his mind.

  "Just who am I?" The thought gnaws at him, looping endlessly like a tune he can't shake. There are hundreds of questions he longs to ask, pieces of a puzzle just beyond his grasp, but for now, there is nothing he can do except wait, wait until he reaches home, until he finds something, anything, that might unlock the memories locked away in his mind.

  The doctor’s words echo in his head, a guiding voice in the abyss of uncertainty.

  "I need you to keep on living, to keep doing what you do best, being a detective. Find clues about your life, Lucian. Connect the dots and uncover the truth. I promise, when you find the truth, everything will make sense."

  A detective? A seeker of truth? But how does one investigate a past they can’t remember? The weight of it presses down on him, thick, suffocating. He exhales, rubbing his temple as a dull ache begins to settle behind his eyes. The more he thinks, the more his mind rebels, pulsing with a frustration he can’t yet define.

  He lets out a slow sigh, shutting his eyes for a brief moment. He needs to stop, needs to breathe, to loosen his grip on the spiraling thoughts. A small reprieve before plunging back into the unknown.

  The taxi hums steadily beneath him, carrying him forward toward whatever answers might lie ahead.

  The taxi driver in the front sits upright, his posture disciplined. He wears a neatly pressed dress shirt, the fabric crisp against his shoulders, complemented by a dark tie knotted with precision. A well-fitted jacket rests on the seat beside him, a sign that his attention to appearance extends beyond mere routine. His hands, steady and experienced, grip the steering wheel with practiced ease, guiding the vehicle smoothly through the bustling streets.

  The glow of passing streetlights flickers across his face, briefly illuminating sharp, observant eyes that dart to the rearview mirror. He studies his passenger, a quiet, distant figure lost in thought, his expression unreadable yet tinged with a quiet curiosity. Finally he break the silent.

  “You must be Lucian, yes? I have hear of your work detective”

  Lucian eye widen as he sit upright, he didn’t think a random person such as a Taxi driver know of him.

  “W-well i’m Lucian yes, how did you know about me?”

  Lucian asks, maybe this is the clue about his life the Doctor is talking about, but asking enough information from people who know him, he can find out who he really is.

  The taxi driver glances at him through the rearview mirror, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I first heard about you from the news, of course. You see this city isn’t a safe place per se, there alway some form of crime going on somewhere” he said looking at the road ahead. “If i have to say, i may feel a little graceful toward you Lucian, thank to you and the work of the police force, there street have become more safer than before”

  The steady hum of the engine fills the quiet space between them, grounding the moment in a sense of familiarity. Outside the window, the city reveals more of itself as the taxi moves beyond the chaotic energy of District 4 and toward the calm embrace of District 10.

  Unlike the towering skyscrapers and neon-lit streets of District 4, District 10 has a gentler presence. Small houses, nestled side by side, form a quiet, connected neighborhood. There are no massive glass structures scraping the sky, just a collection of homes and businesses, modest yet comforting in their simplicity.

  Lucian shifts in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh… thank you,” he murmurs, though the gratitude feels misplaced. The praise is meant for someone, a version of himself that he has no memory of being.

  Lucian leans back slightly, his gaze settling on the taxi driver. “Hmm… how should I call you?” he asks, his tone casual yet carrying the weight of curiosity.

  The driver glances at him briefly through the rearview mirror, then shifts his focus back to the road. “You can call me Daniel. Daniel Mason,” he says with ease, reaching into his pocket before extending a small rectangle of paper toward Lucian. “Oh, and here. If you ever need a ride anywhere in the city, just give me a call.”

  Lucian hesitates before taking it. His fingers brush against the card’s smooth surface as he examines it under the dim glow of the streetlights filtering through the windshield. A phone number. A name. A simple invitation.

  His thoughts flicker back to earlier that day, another slip of paper handed to him by someone who seemed to know him better than he knew himself. Twice in one day. Could this be a coincidence? Or was the universe trying to tell him something?

  He exhales through his nose, pushing the thought aside for now. Instead, he shifts his attention back to the driver. “Do you always carry your huh—business cards with you?” he asks, eyes narrowing slightly in mild amusement.

  Daniel chuckles, nodding. “Yeah, you could say that. In fact—” he reaches toward the car’s glove compartment, flicking it open with practiced ease. Inside, stacks upon stacks of identical business cards are neatly arranged, a testament to his dedication. He gestures toward them with a casual wave. “I like to be prepared.”

  Lucian arches a brow, eyeing the sheer number of them. “That’s… quite a lot.”

  “Of course,” Daniel says with a knowing smile. “If you want to build a business, you have to make sure people remember you. Every person who steps into this cab is a potential returning customer. You make an impression, you hand them a card, and maybe, just maybe they will call you next time instead of hailing a random taxi.”

  Lucian watches him for a moment, then nods slowly. “I suppose you have a point.”

  The taxi slows to a gentle stop in front of a towering apartment complex, larger than most buildings in the area. Lucian stares at it for a moment before exhaling slowly—it feels unfamiliar, yet there’s a strange pull, a silent promise that something inside might help him remember.

  He opens the car door and steps onto the damp pavement, the lingering scent of rain mixing with the city’s muted hum. Closing the door behind him, he turns back to Daniel, offering a small nod. “Thanks for the ride.”

  Daniel chuckles, resting an arm casually on the steering wheel. “Oh, it’s nothing, detective. Your fare was prepaid, so it’s not a big deal.” His eyes flick to the rearview mirror, meeting Lucian’s gaze briefly. “And remember the card I gave you, call me if you ever need another ride.”

  Lucian studies him for a moment before nodding. “I will.”

  With a friendly smile, Daniel shifts gears, the tires rolling forward smoothly. Lucian watches the taxi disappear down the street, its taillights dissolving into the night.

  Now, alone with nothing but the weight of his thoughts, he finally turns to face the building before him.

  "So this is where I live?"

  The thought drifts through his mind, uncertain, heavy. Taking a deep breath, he steps inside.

  The lobby is quiet, illuminated by soft fluorescent lighting. Against the walls sit rows of chairs, stitched together in seamless rows, meant for idle waiting. Potted plants add a touch of warmth to the sterile space, their leaves swaying slightly under the air-conditioning’s breeze.

  Three things immediately catch his attention.

  First, the staircase leading upward, plain, functional, offering access to the upper floors.

  Second, a door tucked to the side, leading somewhere unknown.

  And third, a large metal door standing tall beside the staircase. A sign in the middle of it reads:

  “The elevator is under repair, please use the stairs.”

  Lucian furrows his brow, reading the words again. His fingers trail absentmindedly along the metal surface. "Elevator? So this strange door is an elevator?" The word sounds familiar, yet foreign. What would it feel like to use one? To step inside and let it carry him upward? A simple experience, one most wouldn’t think twice about—but for him, it’s an unknown. And judging by the sign, he won’t find out anytime soon.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Letting out a small sigh, he shifts his attention to the other door. He grips the handle and pushes it open, revealing a descending staircase leading into a dimly lit parking area.

  Lucian steps down hesitantly, scanning the space. The air is cooler here, the scent of gasoline faint but present. The concrete floor is lined with painted markers, guiding vehicles into designated spaces.

  And yet, to him, this area is nothing more than a collection of strange machinery, hulking metal beasts resting in neat rows, each uniquely shaped but equally baffling. He knows his old self would recognize them instantly, would know how they operate, how they move, but the Lucian standing here now? He sees nothing but unfamiliar objects.

  He presses his lips into a thin line, suppressing the frustration bubbling in his chest. This place should hold meaning. Should stir some distant memory. But all he feels is distance.

  Shaking his head, he pulls the slip of paper from his pocket, the one the doctor had given him. He scans its contents, searching for the key detail.

  “Room 402.”

  Muttering the number under his breath, he turns away from the parking lot and heads back up the stairs, choosing the only available path upward.

  The second floor houses rooms numbered 200 to 204.

  The third floor shifts to 300 through 304.

  And finally, as he ascends the last steps, he reaches the fourth floor, the place where his room awaits.

  Lucian stops just outside the doorway, his gaze locking onto the slightly ajar door. His breath hitches as unease creeps in. "Why is it open?" The thought lingers, heavy and insistent. His fingers instinctively brush against the doorframe as he peers inside. His pulse quickens.

  "Is someone already in there?" "Did the doctor give me the wrong room number?"

  A storm of questions swirls in his mind, each pulling at his thinning patience. But there’s only one way to find out. He takes a deep breath, steadies himself, and pushes the door open.

  The scent of old pages and faint traces of coffee greet him. The room is far from pristine, but it’s not abandoned either, messy, yet lived-in.

  Bookshelves line the walls, their contents spilling over in chaotic harmony, not with neatly arranged rows of novels, but stacks of books piled in haphazard towers. Some lean precariously, teetering on the edge of collapse, while others sit wedged between odd trinkets, a forgotten postcard tucked between pages.

  An armchair sits nearby, well-worn, its cushions molded to the shape of someone who has spent many hours in its embrace. A throw blanket is draped lazily over one side, and resting upon it is an open book, its pages held in place by what appears to be a stray receipt or a dried flower, a bookmark of convenience, forgotten in the rush of life.

  The coffee table is a battlefield of creativity. Scattered across it are notebooks filled with hurried scribbles, uncapped pens left behind in mid-thought.

  Wires from various devices snake across the floor in a tangled mess, yet the electronics themselves remain dust-free, maintained with care despite their chaotic arrangement.

  Clothes aren't thrown into careless heaps, but rather draped over chairs in a way that suggests intent, perhaps a favorite sweater waiting to be worn again, or freshly laundered garments yet to be put away. A lone sock peeks out from beneath the couch, as if lost on its own quiet adventure.

  The kitchen counters tell stories of past experiments, bags of flour sit slightly askew, spice jars lined up like silent spectators, and a cookbook lies open to a well-used page, its edges splattered with remnants of past meals. A few dishes rest in the sink, not enough to suggest neglect, but simply evidence of life moving at its own pace.

  It’s not a picture-perfect space, nor is it sterile or untouched. It’s an environment brimming with energy, filled with forgotten musings, half-realized projects, the ebb and flow of someone constantly in motion. Creativity thrives here, taking precedence over rigid order. There’s warmth in the imperfection, a tangible sense of presence, a place that has been lived in, shaped by the hands of someone deeply engaged with their world.

  Lucian exhales slowly, surveying the room. “This is my home?” The thought sits uneasily on his tongue. The evidence is here, scattered across every surface, but he feels no recognition, no attachment.

  And yet, as he steps further inside, there’s something undeniable in the air. Not familiarity, not certainty, but a whisper. A hint. A possibility. Looking at his table, a strange paper laying untouched by time.

  The delicate paper shimmered faintly, its glow so subtle that Lucian blinked several times, uncertain whether his eyes were deceiving him. Hesitantly, he picked it up, feeling the whisper-thin texture between his fingers. As his gaze settled on the elegantly inscribed words, he realized it was no ordinary note, it was an invitation, beckoning him to a place known as the Library of Fate. Shaking his head, this is no time to wonder about such a thing. He need to find out who he is.

  Putting the invitation into his pant pocket, Lucian’s gaze sweeps across the cluttered room, his mind struggling to make sense of his surroundings. But then, something catches his eye.

  A strange device lies on the floor, half-buried beneath a mess of books and scattered papers. He kneels down, fingers brushing against its cool, metallic surface before picking it up. His eyes scan the object, taking in its details. It’s a handheld camera, compact, familiar, yet distant in his mind. The screen flickers softly, a faint glow indicating that it’s still running.

  His brows furrow as he checks the runtime. Over 16 hours.

  "Sixteen hours? That means it’s been recording since yesterday, before I lost my memory."

  The realization hits him like a sudden gust of wind. His grip tightens around the device. If this camera has been rolling all this time, it could hold the answer to everything, what happened to him, why his past feels like an empty void, and maybe even who he really is.

  He inhales sharply, forcing himself to focus. He needs to figure out how to operate it. His fingers fumble over buttons, pressing them hesitantly, testing their function. The interface is surprisingly intuitive, though it takes him a few moments to fully grasp its controls.

  Finally, the recording halts. The screen shifts, offering a playback option. His pulse quickens as he selects it.

  A frozen image appears, the first frame of yesterday’s recording.The day before everything changed.

  Lucian swallows hard. His thumb hesitates over the play button.

  This is it.

  The answer he’s been searching for might be just a click away.

  The video flickered to life, casting a dim glow against the darkness. Old Lucian appeared, and instantly, a wave of unease crept in. His face was gaunt, hollowed by exhaustion, his skin stretched too tightly over his cheekbones, as if time had siphoned the life from him. Deep, sunken eyes stared into the screen, bloodshot, ringed with dark bruises of sleepless nights. His hair was unkempt, strands sticking in erratic directions, as though he'd been running his fingers through it compulsively.

  His breath wavered, ragged, unsteady. He adjusted the camera with trembling hands, fingers twitching ever so slightly, as though he were holding back something unseen. When he spoke, his voice cracked, dry and raspy, like wind scraping over brittle leaves.

  “It has been... sixty-two days since I began studying this book,” he muttered, lifting a tattered, strange notebook into view. His fingers clutched it tightly, knuckles nearly white. “At first, I thought it was just a clue, a mere piece in some murder case. But... it’s more than that. Much more.”

  Old Lucian placed the book down with deliberate slowness, exhaling sharply through his nose, as if even touching it drained him. His eyes darted, scanning the room behind the camera, paranoia thick in his movements.

  “This book... it’s strange. So strange. It contains symbols, words I have never seen before. I have searched, everything, everywhere, but no record exists. Nothing explains it. But lately…” his voice dropped to a whisper, hoarse and frayed, “… I hear it. The book. It speaks to me.”

  His breathing hitched, uneven. His hands twitched involuntarily before curling into fists.

  “You don’t read this book… you understand it. And the more you understand, the more you realize that—it is reading you. Writing itself into you.” His words fractured, splintering into dread. “I haven’t slept. Not in days. Something… something is watching me. I don’t see it. I don’t hear it. But I feel it.”

  A long pause. He stared blankly at the camera, his lips trembling.

  “I’m not insane. Or maybe I am.” A weak chuckle, hollow and humorless. “The boundary between madness and sanity… I don’t know where it is anymore.”

  Suddenly, he froze, his breath hitching. His pupils dilated.

  “It… it’s speaking to me right now,” he whispered.

  Slowly, almost mechanically, Old Lucian stood. His movements were stiff, controlled by something unseen. His head tilted slightly, as if listening to a voice only he could hear, his eyes unfocused.

  “T-the sky? A-are you sure?” the Old Lucian seem to be talking to someone or rather something.

  “…Yes… yes… Look at the sky…” His voice softened into reverence, barely above a breath. He drifted toward the window, pulling back the curtains with slow, deliberate movements.

  The camera did not capture what lay beyond the glass.

  But Lucian, he could hear what his old self was saying.

  “… Ahhh. It’s so beautiful. So… so… wonderful…” Old Lucian gasped, voice quivering in twisted awe.

  Then, an abrupt, choking cry.

  “No, No, NO! Ahh ahh ”

  A screech, aw, primal. His hands flew to his head, fingers digging into his scalp as he staggered back, falling into the flood below, his eye remain wide open, before he get up and ran.

  “GET OUT OF MY HEAD, GET OUT OF MY HEAD!”

  The camera tumbled, crashing onto its side. The screen angled sharply toward the window, toward something.

  A single, blood-red eye.

  Motionless. Watching. Then, it was gone.

  Lucian sat frozen. His breath, his heartbeat, silent.

  Then—

  A shrill ring shattered the quiet coming from his phone.His body jolted, pulse hammering against his ribs.Something wasn't right.