My name is—
Wait.
What is my name?And where am I?
I was lying on a bed in a small rundown room. Above me was a ceiling coated in peeling mustard yellow paint. Light streamed in through a grimy white curtain at the window. Beside the window hung a small white hand basin. Over it sat a square mirror, and to the right of this was a white, circular clock that was counting off the minutes.
3.07pm
Not only did I not know my name, but I had no idea how I came to be here. It looked like a seedy hotel room that stunk of musty carpet, stale cigarette smoke, and sour alcohol. My head felt heavy and everything was vibrating as if I'd been drugged. Groaning, I sat up and staggered to the hand basin and peered into the mirror.
I didn't recognize the face staring back at me.
But this was me. I was male with brown hair and eyes, aged maybe seventeen or eighteen, and I had a small scar on the left side of my chin. I wore a blue and white striped t-shirt, gray jacket, and faded blue jeans. Peering down at my shoes, I saw they were clean but worn.
I examined my hands. They're not rough. They weren't the hands of someone who did outdoor labor. I was probably still at school.
But this didn't answer my single most important question: Who am I?
I turned to examine the room—and fell back in horror. A man lay on the floor beside the bed, and he had what appeared to be a gunshot wound in his side. His shirt and mouth were wet with blood.
I hadn't seen him earlier because he was lying so close to the bed. Did I do this?Did I harm him? There was no weapon. Surely there'd be a weapon lying about if I shot him. Regardless, I had to help him if I could. Kneeling, I gently pulled his shirt apart to examine his wound. I didn't know first aid—no medical training sprang to mind—but this looked bad. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a handkerchief. Pushing it hard against the injury, the man's eyes shifted to me.
Thank goodness, I thought. You're alive.
'It's okay,' I said. 'I'll get help.'
Shaking his head, he tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come.
'I'll get an ambulance.'
'No. My…'
The man's eyes searched the ceiling hopelessly.
I took his hand. 'You need medical assistance.'
He squeezed my hand and forced it around something hard and rectangular in his coat pocket: a book. Dragging it out, he pointed to me, and I understood what he was saying.
He wants me to take the book.
I didn't care about the book. 'I need to get someone.'
He shook his head. With an enormous effort, he took a deep breath and looked into my eyes.
'Your name is Axel,' he said. 'You have to find the Swan. You can't trust…'
A spasm of pain seized him. For a long moment, I thought he was about to die. Then the pain seemed to subside as his breathing became more rapid.
'Trust no one,' he said. 'Some…at The Agency…will help you. All your answers…are in the book...'
'The book?'
His hand traced a path across his body and pointed to my arm. Tiny pinpricks covered my skin. Frowning, I touched them. My other arm was the same. Someone had either injected me a lot of times, or I was a confirmed drug addict.
'The Agency…' He tried to speak again, but the pain stopped him. Sweat broke out across his forehead. I should find you a doctor. He gripped my hand tight.
'Make…' he began again.
'Yes?'
'…a difference,' he said. 'Make…'
How I was supposed to make a difference would never get explained because the stranger then gave a final sigh. His head fell back, his hand went limp, and his eyes lost focus.
He was dead.
The whole incident was so shocking, so unexpected, so wholly mind-numbing that I felt like someone had hit me with an electric shock. The man was dead, and I had to find—who? The Swan? Apart from a bird, I had no idea what or who the Swan could be. And then there was The Agency.
Fantastic, I think. Trust no one, but at least some people at an Agency are on my side. There are only about a million agencies. Shouldn't be hard to find the right one!
I slumped next to the body. And yes, the man had become a body now. That's how quickly a living, breathing person turns into a corpse. My gaze fixed blankly on the walls. I didn't know what to do. I was alone in a room with a dead man. I had nothing. Except—
There was one vital piece of information the stranger had shared with me.
My name is Axel.
I'm Axel—someone. No last name. No address.
I'm Axel…Axel…
It was no good. I racked my brain, struggling to remember my full name, but there was only a blank void. It was like a black hole in the center of my memory. My name—Axel—meant nothing to me. It was as if it belonged to someone else.
This is insane.
I couldn't remember my name, address, friends, or family. Still, I could remember television shows, types of food, lyrics of songs. As soon as I turned my focus towards personal information—anything about me—I got nothing.
The sounds outside the window slowly intruded: the din of traffic, the faraway whistle of a train, the overhead drone of a passenger jet. They slowly brought me back to the present—the horrible truth of this situation. I was sitting on the floor with the body of a dead man whom I may have killed. If I didn't kill him, then someone else did. The final icing on the cake—as if things couldn't get any worse—was that I didn't know how I came to be here.
If these were normal circumstances, I would have gone to the police, but these were not normal circumstances.
Trust no one.
That's what he told me. Trust no one. The book he handed me was lying on the floor. I pushed it into my back pocket. Then I started a search through the dead man's clothing. I was squeamish, but not so squeamish I didn't make a thorough job of it.
I need to know what's going on.
His pockets were empty except for a business card with a name on it:
Cygnus Industries
Below it was an address on West Forty-Ninth Street in New York City.
A sound came distantly from within the building: a jarring, clanking din. It could only be an elevator. As it wheezed to a halt, I slowly stood and stared at the door. I have to get out of here. The best course of action would be to make some distance between myself and this crime scene. Staying here was asking for trouble.
I crossed to the door and reached for the door handle, but then I heard a sound from outside: a jumble of footsteps. It was more than one person. Maybe two or three. Purposeful. Determined. The steps drew frighteningly close as my hand hovered over the door handle.
Someone muttered a few words on the other side of the door. I stood poised, holding my breath, not daring to make a sound.
And then someone turned the door handle from the other side.