He whispered to himself: “Wake up, motherfucker.”
Not a polite cop-knock or a drunk-neighbor stumble. This was a percussive, deliberate thump-thump-THUMP . Leo groaned, pulling the duvet over his head. The knocking stopped. Then his phone vibrated on the hardwood, screen blazing. wake up motherf****r
He didn’t want to. But his feet moved anyway. Under the sink, behind the half-empty bleach and a rusted pipe wrench, was a manila envelope. Inside: photos of Leo at a bar he didn’t recognize, wearing a shirt he’d never owned, laughing with a woman whose face was scratched out. Also a key card to a hotel ten miles away, and a handwritten note: Room 412. You checked in Friday. You don’t remember Friday. He whispered to himself: “Wake up, motherfucker
He typed back: Who is this?
His phone buzzed one last time.
Leo’s hands shook. He tried to remember Friday. Friday was… nothing. A void. He remembered Thursday—he’d lost his job. He remembered Saturday—waking up on the floor with a split lip and a parking ticket in his pocket. But Friday was a black hole. The knocking stopped
Leo stood up. He pulled on jeans stiff with last week’s coffee. He slipped the key card into his pocket, the envelope under his arm. As he reached for the door handle, he caught his reflection in the smudged microwave door—bloodshot eyes, unshaven jaw, a face he barely recognized.
