Ben’s eyes snapped open, and the first thought that jolted through his foggy mind was: This isn’t my bed. He shot upright, muscles coiled with panic, and the cold air kissed every inch of his bare skin. The thin mattress beneath him was cramped, barely big enough to lay on. He was naked, which was weird. A part of him knew that he didn’t usually go to bed nude. Heart hammering, he took in the room around him.
Rough, damp stone walls rose on all sides, dripping condensation that pooled in dark corners. The stones underfoot were uneven, slick with moisture. A pair of naked bulbs jutted from the walls, their filaments flickering and sputtering like dying eyes. No windows offered even a sliver of daylight. The only exit was a single circular hatch with a heavy metal wheel bolted in the center, the sort you’d expect to find on a submarine. A plain porcelain toilet stood guard against one wall, and beside it a tiny sink, its chrome tap dulled by rust. A small, smeared mirror hung above, haloed by a fractured frame. Ben’s breath caught—this looked straight out of a horror movie. Yup, I’m going to die here, he thought, scanning for booby traps, secret trapdoors, rope baskets, lotion. Nothing. At least that was one relief. But the disorientation was overwhelming. Why did I look for lotion?
He jumped from the bed and skidded to the door, yanking on the wheel. The cold metal refused to turn. His knuckles whitened and his face burned flush with futile effort. Defeated, he sagged to the stone floor, beads of sweat tracing cold paths down his temples. What worried him more than this locked cell was the blank space in his mind. He searched for memories: school, graduation, living in different cities—each recollection was half-glimpsed, like light filtering through fog. He knew his name was Benjamin Bernard Barnaby. He knew he was married with two children, but their faces eluded him. He curled his left hand into a fist. No wedding band. How monstrous was he? No, this was done to me, he insisted. He searched deeper, but all he found was a haze.
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After a moment, his gaze fell on a battered wooden trunk at the foot of the bed, atop which lay a neat stack of clothes. Folded neatly, simple black joggers, a long-sleeve charcoal shirt, matching socks, underwear, and a pair of scuffed black tennis shoes. They were his size. He hesitated, because putting them on felt like conceding to whoever had locked him here. For a fleeting instant, he toyed with staying undressed. Fine. I’ll stay naked and see you quake at my skin. But the chill drove him, and he dressed in swift, awkward movements. He crossed to the sink, splashing water on his face, droplets stinging like needles. He cupped his hands and drank straight from the tap and no, it did not taste good. Raising his head, he stared into the grimy mirror. A familiar face stared back: a square jaw just beginning to sprout brown stubble, hair the same unkempt length, clear blue eyes ringed by dark circles. As if he’d shaved clean and let the beard regrow in lockstep with his scalp.
A sudden clunk echoed from above the hatch. A recessed lamp he hadn’t noticed glowed green. Well, well, well. I wonder what that means. Moments later, a mechanical voice crackled from nowhere, flat and insistent:
THE DOOR IS NOW OPEN. EXIT IMMEDIATELY.
Ben threw his head back and bellowed at the ceiling. “Okay, really? I wake up naked in a stone cell with my memories wiped—how cliché can you get? What’s next, a wise old sage appears, hands me a sword, and tells me only I can save the world?”
THE DOOR IS NOW OPEN. EXIT IMMEDIATELY.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m leaving! What else am I supposed to do—sit here and rot?”
THE DOOR—
“I’m leaving already!” He shoved himself to his feet, heart pounding, and braced his hands on the cold hatch wheel.
