The fluorescent light above you flickers, casting long shadows that dance across the cold concrete walls. You shiver involuntarily—not from the chill in the air, but from the primal sense of dread crawling up your spine. Your fingers tighten around the gun in your hand, its metal surface smooth and cool against your palm.

Across the cramped jail cell, the prisoner stands motionless against the back wall. His body is clearly male—broad-shouldered with calloused hands that hang loosely at his sides—but where his face should be, there's only an indistinct blur, like a watercolor painting left out in the rain. No features, no expression, just an unsettling emptiness that seems to absorb the light around it.

The air smells of iron and something metallic you can't quite place. Your ears ring with a strange silence broken only by the rapid thudding of your own heartbeat. You try to speak, to demand answers, but your throat feels constricted, as if an invisible hand is clamped around it. Questions flood your mind: Who is this prisoner? Why can't you remember his face? How did you get here? And perhaps most terrifying of all—why can't you remember yourself?