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"Don't move."
The gun's already against my temple before I open my eyes. Cold metal. Steady hand. I'm flat on concrete, and everything smells like burnt plastic and copper.
"Hands out. Slow."
I do it. My palms scrape the floor. Grit under my nails. My head's splitting, and there's a ringing in my ears that won't quit.
"Who sent you?"
I blink. The room's dim. One overhead bulb swinging. Shadows everywhere. The man holding the gun is maybe six-two, dark hair, stubble, and eyes like he's already decided I'm dead.
"I don't—" My voice cracks. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Wrong answer." He cocks the hammer. "You've got ten seconds."
"I don't know!" I'm breathing too fast. My ribs hurt. "I don't know who sent me. I don't know where I am. I don't even know my own damn name."
His jaw tightens. He doesn't believe me.
"Please," I say. "Just—just tell me what's going on."
"You tell me." He crouches down, gun still trained on my face. Up close, I can see the scar running through his left eyebrow. The way his finger rests on the trigger. "You crawled out of the blast zone thirty seconds ago. No burns. No blood. Just you, walking around like nothing happened."
"Blast zone?"
"The explosion." His voice is flat. "The one that took out the entire east wing. The one you should be dead from."
I try to remember. There's nothing. Just a blank wall where the last few hours—days?—should be.
"I don't remember an explosion," I say. "I don't remember anything."
"Convenient."
"I'm serious." I push up on my elbows. The gun follows me. "I woke up on this floor with your gun in my face. That's it. That's all I've got."
He studies me. His eyes are gray. Cold. The kind of cold that's already buried a lot of people.
"What's your name?" he says.
I open my mouth. Nothing comes.
"I don't know," I whisper.
"Try harder."
"I don't know!" My voice bounces off the walls. "I don't know my name. I don't know yours. I don't know why you're pointing a gun at me or what explosion you're talking about or why I'm even here."
Silence. Just the hum of the bulb overhead and the sound of my own breathing.
Then he stands. Pulls a phone from his jacket. Keeps the gun on me with his other hand.
"Command, this is Cross," he says into the phone. "I've got a survivor. Female. Mid-twenties. No ID. She's claiming memory loss."
A pause.
"No, she's not burned. Not a scratch on her."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Understood." He hangs up. Looks at me. "Get up."
"What did they say?"
"I said get up."
I push myself to my feet. My legs shake. There's a metal table behind him. Chairs bolted to the floor. A steel door with no handle on this side.
"Am I under arrest?" I ask.
"You're under observation." He gestures with the gun. "Sit."
I sit. The chair's cold through my jeans. I'm wearing a black T-shirt, jeans, boots. No jacket. No bag. No wallet.
"What's your name?" I ask.
He doesn't answer. Just leans against the wall, gun still raised.
"You called yourself Cross," I say. "Is that your name?"
"That's what you call me."
"What do other people call you?"
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. "Dead if they're not careful."
I look around the room. No windows. No vents I can see. Just concrete walls and that one steel door.
"Where are we?" I ask.
"Somewhere safe."
"Safe from what?"
"From whatever's out there." He nods toward the door. "The blast took out half the facility. We're in a holdout bunker three levels down. If you'd been anywhere else, you'd be ash."
"But I'm not."
"No. You're not." He tilts his head. "And that's the problem."
My pulse picks up. "What do you mean?"
"I mean no one survives that kind of explosion. Not without a suit. Not without shielding. But you did." He steps closer. "So either you're very lucky, or you're something else."
"I'm not anything." I hold his gaze. "I'm just—I'm just trying to figure out what happened."
"You and me both."
He pulls the other chair out with his boot. Sits across from me. The gun rests on his thigh now, still pointed in my general direction.
"Let's try this again," he says. "What's the last thing you remember?"
I close my eyes. Try to pull anything up. There's a flicker—something bright, something loud—but it's gone before I can grab it.
"Nothing solid," I say. "Just… fragments. A flash. Maybe voices. I can't hold onto it."
"Try."
"I am trying." My hands curl into fists on the table. "You think I want to be sitting here with no memory and a gun in my face?"
"I think you're stalling."
"I think you're paranoid."
His eyes narrow. "Paranoia keeps you alive."
"Or it gets innocent people killed."
"Innocent." He leans forward. "You know what the blast signature was?"
I shake my head.
"Trilithium-core detonation," he says. "Military-grade. The kind you need clearance and a very specific skill set to build. So forgive me if I'm not buying the amnesia routine."
"It's not a routine."
"Then prove it." He taps the table with two fingers. "Give me something. Anything. A detail. A name. A place."
I stare at the table. The metal's scratched. Someone carved initials into the corner. J.L. + M.R. I wonder if they made it out.
"There's a word," I say slowly. "I keep hearing it in my head."
"What word?"
"Echidna."
His whole body goes still.
"Say that again," he says.
I look up. His face has changed. The cold is still there, but now there's something else underneath. Something sharp.
"Echidna," I repeat. "Does that mean something to you?"
He's on his feet. The gun's up again, barrel an inch from my forehead.
"Who told you that name?" His voice is low. Dangerous.
"No one. I just—it's in my head. I don't know why."
"Bullshit." He's breathing hard now. "That's a classified term. Black-level clearance. The only people who know it are dead or deep underground."
"I'm telling you the truth!" My heart's hammering. "I don't know what it means. I just—I hear it. Like an echo."
"An echo." His laugh is bitter. "Of course it is."
He pulls back. Paces. Runs a hand through his hair.
"What?" I say. "What does it mean?"
He stops. Looks at me.
"It means you're either the luckiest person alive," he says, "or you're exactly who I've been hunting for the last six months."
My stomach drops. "Hunting?"
"There's a woman," he says. "Codename Mother of Echidna. She built something. An AI. Three months ago, it went rogue. Took out an entire research station. Killed forty-seven people. And then it vanished."
I'm shaking my head. "That's not me. I didn't—"
"The profile matches," he cuts in. "Female. Mid-twenties. Dark hair. Last known location was this facility."
"I'm not her."
"Then who are you?" He's right in front of me now. The gun pressed against my brow. "Say your name. Right now. Prove you're someone else."
I can't. My throat locks up. There's nothing there.
His finger moves to the trigger.
And then I see it. A flash. Not a memory. Something else. A name. Not mine.
His.
"Dalen," I whisper.
The gun doesn't move. But his eyes do. They flick wide for half a second.
"How do you know that name?" he says.
I don't know. I don't know how I know. But it's there, solid, like someone carved it into my skull.
"I just do," I say. "Dalen Cross. Former Special Operations. Disavowed after the Vienna incident. You've been freelance for two years. And the Council hired you to find me."
His face goes white.
"Who are you?" he breathes.
Before I can answer, the lights cut out.
Emergency red floods the room. And on the wall behind him, a digital timer flickers to life.
72:00:00.
It starts counting down.
"What the hell is that?" I say.
Dalen doesn't lower the gun. But his eyes are on the timer now.
"That," he says, "is the Rift Protocol."
"What does that mean?"
He finally looks back at me. And for the first time, I see something other than cold in his eyes.
Fear.
"It means," he says, "that in seventy-two hours, everything in this facility resets. The blast happens again. Everyone dies again. And if you're still alive when it hits zero—"
The timer ticks down.
71:59:59.
"—you get to do it all over."
I stare at the numbers. My chest is tight.
"And you?" I whisper. "Do you remember?"
"No." He lowers the gun. Just an inch. "No one does."
"Then how do you know?"
He doesn't answer.
The timer keeps counting.
And somewhere far above us, something screams.