I was sent to capture the CIA's most wanted fugitive.
But things took a tragic turn,
My entire team was murdered before my eyes, and I was kidnapped by said fugitive.
It seemed like my government had forgotten me and I became a puppet for the fugi...
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He stares at me with those calculating eyes, and then he rips the duct tape off my mouth. Fuck. It hurts.
"What the hell is this?" I demand, my voice hoarse. "Who are you?"
"My identity is not of your concern. What matters is what Mr. Hidalgo said to you while you were unconscious," he replies, stepping closer. "And we have the best methods to extract that information."
Two of the goons step forward, one of them holding a syringe filled with a clear liquid. The other holds a device that looks like a modified headset, wires snaking out of it.
"You're going to conduct hypnosis on me?" I ask, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and anger. And then I begin to struggle, to find my way out, but the ropes are too strong.
"Precisely, you're a smart one, Agent Hill, but you see, it's not actual hypnosis, not even real science. We are going to put you in a dream state." the man replies, his lips curling into a faint smile.
Then he pulls out a syringe with a strange liquid in it. I begin to struggle and I spit at him. Either he has no sense of feeling or he just simply ignores me. "This serum will make you more susceptible, and the device will guide you through the process. You will remember, Agent Hill, whether you want to or not."
The syringe pierces my arm, and I feel the cold liquid flood my veins. My vision blurs, and a wave of dizziness hits me. The device is placed over my head, and a low hum fills the air.
"Focus on the moment you were with Hidalgo," the man's voice echoes, distorted and distant. "Go there."
I struggle as my subconscious mind succumbs to the serum. I'm pulled back to the night of the fight, watching from afar as I step out of my car and head into the house-the murder scene. If I could rewrite history, I'd go through the back, but it's too late now.
"You are walking into the house, Agent Hill. Tell us what you see." The doctor's voice penetrates into my subconscious.
I watch myself wait by the door. Footsteps approach, and then a vase crashes onto my head. I'm simultaneously watching and feeling it. The pain is sharp, real. Is this procedure harmful? From how I feel, it definitely is. But that's why Mom hardwired me to endure tough stuff when I was younger.
I stagger to the floor, regain some balance, and chase after him. The scene unfolds quickly. I have him cornered-at least, I think I do.
"Walk me through, Agent Hill. What is happening?" the doctor's voice filters into my subconscious again. "Inject her with more of the serum," he orders, anger tinging his voice. His command echoes in my mind, and I wonder if I have a fighting chance, if I'll survive this.
I notice something I missed that night: the way he abruptly stops at the sound of my voice. Does he recognize my voice? If so, from where?
He attacks me, and we engage in a heated fistfight. It all happens again, and I feel the pain afresh. My head collides with the wall for the third time, and I slowly lose consciousness. I inch closer as he approaches my body. He orders his men to leave me in Italian, or so I think.
