"Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!"

  Maggie's boots pounded against asphalt as she weaved between the abandoned cars. The engines hummed, headlights cutting through the grey fog, but every single driver's seat sat empty.

  "What the hell is going on?" she gasped, vaulting over a car's hood. "Why is there not a single soul here? Why are the cars on? And who the FUCK are those two psychos after me?"

  She risked a glance back. Still there—two figures in dark coats, moving with that wrong kind of smoothness, like they were gliding more than running. The taller one grinned, and Maggie's stomach dropped.

  She ran faster.

  The street stretched endlessly ahead, identical cars lined up like toys. No cross-streets. No alleys. Just this one impossible road that bent in ways that made her head hurt if she thought about it too long. She ducked between two SUVs, circled a pickup truck, kept moving. Anywhere. Just away from those two.

  Movement in the sky caught her eye. An eagle, circling overhead through the fog, its silhouette sharp against the grey. Something about it felt deliberate, like it was tracking her path.

  Maggie rounded another corner—same street, same cars, same fog—and almost tripped over her own feet.

  A man.

  An actual, real, living person. Leaning against a lamppost like he had nowhere better to be, hands shoved deep in the pockets of a white lab coat. He was tall, broad in the shoulders, with dark hair and sharp eyes behind his glasses—and a smirk that made her want to punch him before he'd said a single word. A husky sat at his feet—brown and grey, with those distinctive markings and bright, alert eyes that looked almost too intelligent for a dog.

  "Hey!" Maggie sprinted toward him, her lungs burning. "HEY! I need—fuck—I need help! There's these—"

  The man's eyes flicked to her. "Hmm?"

  "Are you deaf?" She skidded to a stop in front of him, checking over her shoulder. The two figures were maybe fifty feet back now, still closing in with that horrible gliding walk. "Those two! They've been chasing me for—I don't even know how long! We need to—I don't know, call the cops? Is there a station nearby? Do you have a phone?"

  The man blinked at her, then looked in the direction she was pointing. For a brief moment, his eyes sharpened—really focused on something—and he made a subtle gesture with his hand. The dog's ears perked up, and above them, the eagle's circling pattern shifted.

  "Two what now?"

  "THOSE TWO!" Maggie pointed frantically. "Right there! The creepy bastards in the—"

  She turned to point again, and froze.

  The street behind her was empty. Just cars. No figures. Nothing.

  "What the..." Maggie spun in a circle. "They were just—where did they—"

  "Huh. Weird." The man scratched the dog behind its ears absently. "Maybe they got bored. Happens."

  "They were RIGHT THERE!"

  "If you say so." He glanced up briefly—Maggie followed his gaze and saw the eagle still circling above, closer now, as if reporting back. "Though between you and me, sprinting down an empty street screaming profanities at nobody isn't exactly normal behavior."

  Maggie's heart hammered in her chest. She looked around wildly. The fog seemed thicker now, pressing in. "This doesn't make any fucking sense. Where even ARE we? This street—it's wrong. The cars, the fog, everything's—"

  "Welcome to Friday night in... where are we again?" He glanced around with exaggerated confusion. "Honestly, all these suburban hellscapes look the same."

  "Don't fuck with me right now." Maggie grabbed his arm—his sleeve was some kind of white fabric, like a lab coat. What kind of weirdo walks their dog in a lab coat? The dog tilted its head at her, not threatening, just curious. "Something is seriously wrong here. This place—it doesn't feel real. And those things that were chasing me—"

  "Things?" He raised an eyebrow. "Thought they were people a second ago."

  "They—" Maggie faltered. Were they people? Up close, their faces had been wrong somehow. Too smooth. Like masks. "I don't know what they were, but they were real, and they were chasing me, and now they're just GONE, and you're standing here acting like—"

  "Like a guy out for a walk with his dog?"

  "Like you know something I don't!"

  He studied her with dark, unreadable eyes. "That's a pretty low bar. I know lots of things you don't. The capital of Mongolia, for instance. The proper way to suture a wound. Why you should never, ever eat gas station sushi—"

  "OH MY GOD." Maggie wanted to strangle him. "Can you just—for five fucking seconds—tell me what the hell is happening? Where are we? Why is this street endless? Where did those things go?"

  "So many questions." He shrugged. "You always this intense, or is today special?"

  "I'm intense because I'm being CHASED by NIGHTMARE CREATURES through some IMPOSSIBLE FUCKING STREET!"

  "Nightmare creatures. Right." He nodded seriously. "Did they have, like, tentacles? Glowing eyes? Or more of a generic creepy vibe?"

  Maggie's hands clenched into fists. "You're making fun of me."

  "Little bit, yeah."

  "While I'm clearly freaking out."

  "Also yes."

  "And you're doing it while wearing a fucking lab coat." She gestured at his white coat. "Who the hell wears a lab coat to walk their dog?"

  "Someone who values practicality over fashion?" He adjusted the coat slightly. "Lots of pockets. Very useful."

  "You're insane."

  "Says the woman screaming about nightmare creatures on an empty street."

  "They were REAL!"

  "If you say so."

  "You are the WORST—"

  "Look," he interrupted, suddenly serious. "You want answers? Here's one: you're asking the wrong questions."

  "Then what's the RIGHT question?"

  His eyes narrowed, studying her. "What's the last thing you remember?"

  Maggie opened her mouth to answer—then stopped. Tried to think back. Before the chase, before the street, before running. There had to be something. She'd been somewhere. Doing something.

  "I..." She frowned. "I was... I don't know. Walking? I think I was walking somewhere."

  "Okay. Walking where?"

  "I don't—" She pressed her fingers to her temples. "I can't remember. It's like trying to grab smoke."

  "Before that, then. What were you doing before you started walking?"

  "I..." Nothing. Just grey fog. "I don't know."

  "Where do you live?"

  The question should have been simple. Everyone knew where they lived. But Maggie opened her mouth and found nothing there. No address. No street name. No image of a front door or a bedroom or anything at all.

  "That's..." Her voice came out smaller. "That's not right."

  "What about your name?"

  "Margaret Bourne," she said automatically. Then blinked. "Maggie. I go by Maggie."

  His expression flickered—recognition, maybe, or something she couldn't name. His eyes stayed on her face, and for a beat, he went completely still.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Then it was gone, smooth as if it had never been there.

  "Right," he said, casually. "Maggie. What about your family? Parents?"

  "I..." She tried. Reached for something—anyone. A face. A voice. Anything familiar. "I don't know. I can't remember."

  "Friends? A job? School?"

  "Nothing." The word came out raw. "I don't remember anything. Why can't I remember anything?"

  The man was quiet for a moment, watching her. The dog pressed against her leg, offering silent comfort.

  "Huh," he said finally, and looked away. His jaw tightened—barely perceptible, but there.

  Then, in a low voice, almost to himself: "Let's shake things up."

  "What?" Maggie looked at him. "What did you say?"

  "They're back," he said quietly.

  "What?"

  "Your friends. Behind you."

  Maggie spun around.

  The two figures stood about thirty feet away, perfectly still, watching. Like they'd been there the whole time, waiting.

  "Fuck, fuck, FUCK—" She whirled back to the man. "Okay, okay, I don't know what's happening or where we are or who you are, but PLEASE, you have to help me—"

  Empty space.

  The lamppost stood alone. The man and dog—gone. Vanished. Like they'd never existed.

  "NO!" Maggie screamed at the empty air. "You fucking COWARD!"

  A hand clamped down on her shoulder.

  · · ·

  Maggie woke to the smell of rust and mold.

  Her head throbbed. Her wrists burned—zip-tied to a metal chair in what looked like an abandoned warehouse. Classic. It had to be a warehouse.

  Concrete floors. Broken windows high up on the walls. Shipping containers stacked in the shadows.

  Five figures stood around the warehouse.

  Two stood by the entrance, perfectly still. Three more had positioned themselves around the warehouse—one near the containers, one by a rusted forklift, one blocking the back exit. All with those too-smooth faces, all watching her with empty eyes.

  Maggie tested the zip-ties. Tight. Very tight. Her wrists were already raw from struggling.

  "Oh great," she muttered. "Of course. Five against one. Real fair, you faceless fucks."

  None of them reacted. Didn't move. Just stood there, waiting.

  Five figures. Not a single one had noticed the dog.

  A sound made her freeze. Soft padding footsteps. Claws on concrete.

  The husky emerged from behind one of the containers—the same one from before. It trotted over to her, completely ignoring the five figures like they weren't even there.

  "Hey," Maggie whispered. "What are you doing here? Where's your annoying owner?"

  The dog sat down next to her chair, looking up at her with intelligent eyes. Then it leaned forward and gnawed at the zip-ties around her wrists.

  Maggie blinked. For a second she just watched, not quite processing what was happening. Then the dog's teeth found purchase and she felt the plastic give, just slightly.

  "Good dog, good dog," she breathed, glancing at the figures. Still motionless. Not even looking in their direction.

  Her hands came free.

  It stayed close, pressing against her side, a low growl building in its throat.

  All five figures' heads snapped toward her in perfect unison.

  "Right. Let's go."

  Maggie grabbed the metal chair and swung. Connected with the nearest figure's chest—the thing stumbled back, and she followed through with a kick that sent it crashing into a shipping container. It hit the ground and didn't get back up.

  Four left.

  Two rushed her from different angles. Maggie sidestepped the one on the left, using its momentum against it—grabbed its arm and redirected it straight into the other. They collided with a hollow thud. She brought the chair down on the first one's back while it was stumbling. Then the second, before it could recover.

  Both hit the concrete. The chair splintered under the impact, nothing left but broken legs and twisted metal.

  Two left.

  But even as they dropped, Maggie saw movement at the warehouse entrance. Two more figures stepped through, that same horrible gliding walk. Then another behind them.

  "Are you kidding me?" she breathed.

  The remaining two original figures attacked. Maggie backed toward the wall—no, not enough room. She needed space to move. She darted toward the gap between two shipping containers, just wide enough to force them to come at her one at a time.

  The first one lunged through. Maggie let it come, then drove her elbow into its throat. It choked, stumbled forward. She grabbed its shoulders and slammed her knee into its chest. It crumpled.

  The second was more cautious, stopping just outside the gap. Maggie feinted left, then closed the distance fast—a sharp kick to the knee that buckled its leg, followed by an elbow to the temple. Down.

  The dog stayed close the whole time, watching. When one of the new figures tried to flank her from behind while she was busy, the husky threw its full weight into the thing's legs, throwing it off balance just long enough for Maggie to finish it with a clean strike.

  More kept coming.

  Another figure lunged. Maggie caught its arm, twisted, used its own weight to throw it over her hip. It slammed into the concrete. She followed up with a punch to its chest before it could rise.

  Another one came in fast. She sidestepped, hooked its leg with hers, brought it down. Knelt on its back. Elbow to the base of the skull. It went limp.

  And another.

  Maggie's knuckles were split, her shoulders aching, chest heaving. But every time she brought one down, she felt sharper. Faster. Her body moved on its own—ducking, striking, redirecting—like it had done this a thousand times before. Like muscle memory from a life she couldn't remember living.

  A figure charged at her. She didn't even think. Just moved. Caught its arm mid-swing, redirected its momentum, swept its legs in one fluid motion. It hit the ground hard. She was already standing by the time the next one came.

  Another one. Same result.

  And another.

  Maggie straightened up, breathing hard, knuckles bloody, sweat dripping down her face. She looked at the pile of figures around her—bodies crumpled and still—and she was grinning. Actually grinning. Because this felt right. This felt like hers.

  "You know what?" she said, cracking her neck. "Fuck it. I could do this all day. I'm invincible."

  The dog looked up at her, tail swaying once.

  Then it stopped.

  Its ears flattened. A deep growl built in its chest—different from before. A warning.

  Maggie turned.

  A man stepped out from behind the containers. Broad-shouldered, maybe mid-forties, with greying hair and a weathered face. He moved with a fighter's walk—balanced, controlled, dangerous. Not gliding. Not smooth in that wrong, inhuman way.

  This one moved like a person. A very, very dangerous person.

  Maggie's chest tightened. A sharp little stab, there and gone in an instant—like a needle pushed through fabric. She couldn't explain it. Didn't try.

  The figures she'd been fighting were all gone now. The warehouse was empty except for the three of them—Maggie, the man, and the dog pressed tight against her leg.

  "So," Maggie said, raising her fists. "You're their boss. I hope you're better than them. They were too easy."

  The man studied her for a long moment. Something flickered across his weathered face—almost like pride—but it was gone before she could name it.

  He moved.

  Maggie swung. He wasn't there. His hand closed around her wrist—gently, almost—and redirected the strike past him. She spun with it, came back with an elbow. He deflected it. She dropped low, swept for his legs. He stepped over it like he had all the time in the world.

  "You're dropping your shoulder," he said.

  Maggie blinked. "What?"

  "When you telegraph your strike. You drop your left shoulder first. Try again."

  The way he said it made her skin prickle. Not like a threat. Like an instruction.

  She tried again. Faster this time, keeping her shoulder level. The man blocked it—but nodded, just slightly.

  "Better."

  They went back and forth. Each time Maggie adjusted, he pushed harder. Each time she found a new angle, he found a counter. But he never struck first. Never went on the offensive. Just responded, corrected, tested.

  "You can do better than this," he said, after she missed a hook by an inch.

  The words hit something. Something deep and buried. Maggie felt her throat tighten—for no reason she could explain—and pushed it down, redirected the feeling into another strike.

  Better. He nodded again.

  They'd been at it for several minutes now—long enough for Maggie's lungs to burn and her muscles to shake. The dog watched from a few feet away, head low, eyes tracking the man's every move.

  Then it lunged.

  The husky launched itself at the man with everything it had—not a playful attack, not a redirect. A real assault, all teeth and fury. It hit him in the chest and the man actually stumbled back a step, surprised for the first time.

  He caught the dog mid-snarl and threw it.

  Not gently this time.

  The husky hit the concrete with a yelp that echoed through the warehouse, skidding across the floor until it slammed against a shipping container. It lay there, whimpering, trying to get its legs under it.

  "No!"

  Maggie didn't think. Didn't plan. Every ounce of rage, every bit of frustration, every drop of something deeper she couldn't name—all of it exploded out of her at once.

  She came at him with everything she had.

  It wasn't enough.

  He caught her. One hand around her throat—not choking, just holding—lifting her just enough that her toes barely scraped the ground. She kicked, clawed, headbutted. Connected once. His grip loosened a fraction.

  She tried again.

  His fist connected with her temple, sharp and precise, and the world tilted sideways. The last thing she saw before darkness took her was the man's face—those tired, weathered eyes looking down at her with an expression she couldn't read.

  Then nothing.

  · · ·

  When she came to, someone was snapping their fingers in front of her face.

  "Hey. Sleeping Beauty. Wake wake."

  Maggie's vision swam into focus. The dark-haired man from before crouched in front of her, white lab coat slightly disheveled. The husky sat next to him.

  "You," she croaked. "You fucking left me—"

  "Yeah, yeah, I'm the worst, we've established this." He stood, offering a hand. "Come on, up you go."

  "The dog—is it okay?" Maggie pushed herself up on shaky legs, ignoring his hand. She looked at the husky with concern. "That guy threw him into a wall."

  "He's fine. Tougher than he looks." The man was already walking toward the warehouse exit. The dog trotted after him, no limp, no sign of injury.

  Maggie followed, rubbing her neck. "Where did that guy go? The one who—"

  "Taken care of."

  "Taken care of how? By who?"

  He glanced back at her. "By me."

  Maggie stopped walking. "By you."

  "Problem?"

  "You?" She gestured at him—all of him. The dark hair, the glasses, the white lab coat. "You took out that guy? The one who just spent several minutes using me as a punching bag without even trying?"

  "I'm deceptively scrappy."

  "You don't look like you've been in a fight in your life."

  "That's the secret." He adjusted his glasses with a perfectly straight face. "Very stealthy. Like a ninja."

  Maggie stared at him. "A ninja wearing a lab coat. That's new."

  "If a kid wearing an orange suit can be one, what's wrong with a lab coat?"

  "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "Figures." He shrugged, completely unbothered. "Anyway—do you remember anything? From before all this?"

  Maggie considered that. "Not really. But..." She flexed her hands, looking at her split knuckles. "I know how to fight. Like, really know how to fight. That wasn't something I learned in there—it was already there. In my body."

  "And that guy—the one at the end." She frowned, trying to put it into words. "He wasn't trying to beat me. He was teaching me. The way he corrected my strikes, the way he held back..." She shook her head. "It felt like he knew me. But I have no idea who he was."

  He studied her for a long moment, something unreadable behind his glasses.

  "Hmm. Let's try something else then."

  "What do you mean—"

  But he was already raising his hand, fingers curling.

  "Wait, wai—"

  He snapped his fingers in front of her face.

  "Wake up."