An Introvert in Paris - Part 2 : The Origin

Chapter One

I drifted in a daze, dimly aware of the sunlight spilling through a partially open window, its rays warming my face despite my closed eyelids. The glass was cracked, the center pane marred by a deep fracture that jaggedly divided it. Blinking sluggishly, I struggled to focus, my vision swimming in an indistinct blur. After several attempts, my surroundings slowly sharpened into view.

Beside me, an old wooden table stood, cluttered with a mix of objects—some recognizable, others entirely foreign. My eyes skimmed over scattered medical records and handwritten recovery notes signed by names I didn't recognize. The room felt eerily vacant, its silence stretching uncomfortably. As I tried to move, an unbearable weight pressed against my limbs, as though I had been immobilized for ages. My body felt alien, stiff and unfamiliar, like that of a newborn struggling to take its first steps.

"What's wrong with me?" The thought echoed in my mind, joined by a flood of frantic questions. "Where is everyone?" My hand reached instinctively for a water bottle on the floor, its seal unbroken. As I grasped it, my fingers trembled uncontrollably.

Two calendars hung on the wall beside my bed. One marked 2018 had two dates—November 8 and November 17—circled, while the 2022 calendar displayed only the month of March, blank and unmarked. A strange unease settled over me.

Lifting the bottle to my lips, I suddenly became aware of the tubes attached to my face—one running to my mouth, another beneath my nose, secured by adhesive strips. The realization sent a jolt through me, intensifying my confusion.

Just then, the door swung open, and a young woman entered. The moment her eyes landed on me, she froze, her face contorting in shock as though she had seen a ghost. Her lips parted in disbelief, and tears spilled down her cheeks.

"Oh my God... is that you, Ryanne?" she gasped, her voice thick with emotion.

She repeated my name, her tone urgent, but I could only stare at her blankly. "Who are you? Where am I? What happened to me?"

The question seemed to shatter something within her. She stepped closer, shaking her head in astonishment. "You don't remember me?" Her voice wavered.

"Who are you?" I demanded.

The moment I asked, she broke down, sinking to the floor in a mess of sobs. I stood frozen, watching her unravel before me, my mind scrambling for an explanation. After a moment, she collected herself and gently guided me back to the bed. With careful hands, she removed the tubes from my face.

"Those two dates on the 2018 calendar," she explained, her voice trembling. "The first is the day you lost consciousness. The second is the day you woke up."

"What does that even mean?" I asked, my pulse quickening.

"Let's start with the first date," she urged, her eyes pleading.

"No," I cut in, my frustration rising. "What does it mean to be unawake?"

She hesitated, then sighed, her shoulders sagging. "I don't even know how to explain it. I don't know how to make you understand."

Then she took a deep breath and met my gaze. "My name is Priscilla. I'm—" She paused before correcting herself. "I was your girlfriend."

"Lover?" The word felt foreign on my tongue.

"Yes," she affirmed, her voice thick with emotion. "And you've been unconscious for four years." Tears welled in her eyes. "I don't even know how to say this properly."

My breath hitched. "Four years?"

Priscilla's expression was laced with sorrow as she nodded. "Yes, Ryanne. You've been lying in that bed for four years."

I searched her face, desperate for some familiarity, but she was a stranger to me. Nothing made sense. I had no memory of her, no grasp of where I was, no understanding of how I had gotten here.

Then the door creaked open again, and two men stepped in, both dressed in sharp black attire. The taller one approached and handed me a phone.

"This belongs to you, sir," he said, his voice cold and formal. A chill ran down my spine.

I hesitated before powering it on. The most recent message caught my eye.

"Report on the mission..."

French. The text was in French. Did I know French? I had no recollection of ever learning it.

The shorter man snatched the phone from my grasp, his voice low as he spoke into his earpiece. "Yes, sir. Understood." His eyes flickered toward me, assessing, calculating.

Priscilla remained silent, her expression unreadable.

The taller man nodded. "Alright, sir. You've got it."

Then, with a glance at his partner, he barked, "DoA. We take him."

My pulse spiked. Priscilla shot me a warning look before grabbing my hand, pulling me toward a side door. I followed her without thinking, and together, we slipped through the shattered window, landing beside a dilapidated pool littered with debris.

A burst of gunfire shattered the silence. Bullets whizzed past as we dove for cover behind an abandoned vehicle. My heart pounded.

"Are you hurt?" I asked urgently.

She clutched her side, her breathing labored. Blood seeped between her fingers. "I'm fine. You?"

"A scratch," I lied, though her injury was far worse. She was losing too much blood.

I reached to help her up, but a voice barked an order from the distance. "Hold him there!"

Another responded, "Is he with the woman?"

Before they could act, I moved. In a swift motion, I wrenched a rifle from one of the men, twisting his wrist and striking his shoulder in a practiced maneuver. He grunted in pain as I dismantled the weapon in seconds, scattering its pieces across the ground.

Priscilla tugged at my leg weakly. "Joel, don't," she whispered.

I hesitated before hoisting her into my arms and sprinting toward an old car. I threw open the passenger door and frantically searched for keys—nothing.

"What the hell?" I hissed.

"What's wrong?" she murmured, barely conscious.

"No keys!"

Then Priscilla lifted a trembling hand, pointing at the dashboard. "Press there."

I followed her instruction, and the steering wheel shifted, revealing a hidden ignition button. Without hesitation, I pressed it, and the engine roared to life.

As we sped away, I stole one last look at Priscilla. Her eyes fluttered shut, her breathing shallow.

I had no idea where we were headed, no clue what had happened in the past four years. But one thing was certain—whatever this was, it was far from over.