Lazarus Protocol

Chapter 1: Awakening in Berlin

The first sensation was pain. A dull, throbbing ache that seemed to emanate from every cell in his body. Then came the cold - a bone-deep chill that made him shiver uncontrollably. Slowly, other sensations filtered through the haze of discomfort: the rough texture of cheap sheets against his skin, the faint smell of mildew and cigarette smoke, the distant sound of traffic.

His eyes snapped open, then immediately squeezed shut against the harsh glare of sunlight streaming through a grimy window. He tried to sit up, but his muscles protested, sending fresh waves of pain through his body. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself into a sitting position, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the light.

The room that came into focus was small and shabby - peeling wallpaper, a rickety dresser with a cracked mirror, a single chair that looked like it might collapse if anyone tried to sit on it. Through the dirty window, he could see a slice of gray sky and the tops of buildings that spoke of Eastern European architecture.

But none of that was as disconcerting as the realization that hit him like a physical blow: he had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there.

Worse still, he couldn't remember his own name.

Panic threatened to overwhelm him, but something - instinct, training, he wasn't sure - kicked in. Stay calm. Assess the situation. Find a way out. The thoughts came unbidden, in a voice that sounded like his own, yet somehow unfamiliar.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the protests of his battered body. His bare feet touched cold, uneven floorboards. He was dressed in nondescript clothing - jeans, a plain black t-shirt, both showing signs of wear and tear. No shoes in sight.

A quick pat-down revealed no wallet, no phone, nothing to give him a clue about his identity. But there was something... His hand brushed against a small, hard object in his front pocket. He pulled it out - a key. Old-fashioned, made of tarnished brass. No identifying marks, just a series of notches that seemed vaguely familiar, though he couldn't say why.

He stood, swaying slightly as a wave of dizziness washed over him. When it passed, he made his way to the dresser, bracing himself against the wall for support. The face that stared back at him from the cracked mirror was a stranger's - mid-thirties, with close-cropped dark hair and three days' worth of stubble. Sharp, intelligent eyes that now held a mix of confusion and wariness. A thin scar ran along his jawline, its origin another mystery to add to the growing list.

A sudden noise from outside the room made him freeze. Footsteps, heavy and purposeful, coming up what sounded like stairs. They stopped just outside the door. The handle turned slowly, the old mechanism groaning in protest.

Without conscious thought, he found himself moving. In three quick strides, he was beside the door, flattened against the wall. His body tensed, ready for... what? He wasn't sure, but every instinct screamed danger.

The door swung open. A man stepped in - tall, heavily built, with the look of someone used to violence. He barely had time to register the empty bed before a hand clamped over his mouth from behind, an arm snaking around his throat in a practiced chokehold.

"Who are you?" The words came out in a low, menacing growl. "Why are you here?"

The intruder struggled, but the hold was perfect, cutting off both air and blood flow. Within seconds, he went limp. The man with no name eased him to the ground, quickly patting him down. A gun - Glock 19, his mind supplied, though he couldn't fathom how he knew that - was tucked into a shoulder holster. He took it, along with a wallet and a cell phone.

The wallet yielded no answers, just some cash in euros and a blank keycard. The phone was locked. He pocketed both, along with the gun, which felt unnervingly familiar in his hand.