Kings Cross, Sydney — September 10th, 2008.
Night—12:30 A.M.
It was half past midnight, and Danny was walking down the narrow alley behind the club, cigarette in hand, though he didn't smoke.
He usually doesn't waste a cigarette. But tonight, his finger needed something to do. Something reckless. Something rough around the edges.
He leaned against the wall, concrete cold against his back, and let the smoke curl around his face.
His knuckles still ached from something. Maybe a fight. Maybe a wall. His memory was foggy, like the back end of a hangover that never fully came.
He glanced down at his shirt—a black button-up, unrecognisable. There was blood on the sleeve, dry and flaked. He wasn't sure if it was his. His ribs felt sore. His left eye throbbed.
A guy from the club walked past. "Yo, no fighting today, bro?"
Danny didn't answer, just nodded.
Because how could he explain it? That sometimes he woke up in places he didn't remember entering? Those names sounded familiar but faces didn't?
That he sometimes caught a glimpse of a child in his dreams—a boy with soft golden-brown curls—and felt grief for a life he didn't think was his?
He took another drag. Exhaled slowly. The cigarette dropped from his fingers.
Across the alley, a window caught his eye. Reflected in it was a man, it was him, but not him at the same time.
The posture was different. The expression was softer. The hair was slightly off. For a brief second, he didn't recognise his own body.
Then it was gone. He blinked. Voices echoed from behind, friends calling him back inside. But he stayed still. He looked at his hand.
There was a note in his pocket. He didn't remember putting it there. He unfolded it and saw a shaky handwriting.
'You don't belong here anymore.'
Winston Hills, Sydney — September 10th, 2008.
Morning, 9:40 A.M.
Daniel was at the breakfast table, unmoving, staring into a bowl of cereal that had long since gone soggy.
Claire stood by the sink, rinsing a mug, stealing glances. Jacob had already left for school, the quiet in the house strange for a Wednesday.
Claire dried her hands and walked over. "You alright?"
He didn't answer at first. His spoon stayed still in the bowl.
"Daniel?"
He blinked. "Yeah," he said, stammering. "Just…spaced out."
She nodded slowly, not buying it. "You haven't touched your food."
He looked down, surprised the bowl was even there. His hand trembled slightly as he set the spoon aside.
Claire sat across from him, folding her arms. "You came in at 3 again last night."
"I was—"
"Working, I know. You said that yesterday. And the day before. But you've been saying things lately, Dan. Things that don't make sense."
He didn't respond. Just rubbed his temples, trying to massage some invisible pressure out of his skull.
"You told me last night that your manager's name was Alan. You've worked under Louise for three years."
Daniel looked up, startled.
Claire leaned in. "You don't remember, do you?"
He opened his mouth, closed it again.
She sighed. "I've let it go for days. The bruises, the shirts I don't recognize, the way you talk like a stranger sometimes. I thought maybe…maybe you were just tired. You usually don't talk about pressure, right?"
Daniel stood up abruptly, knocking the chair back. "I said I'm fine."
His voice was louder than he intended. Sharp enough to silence the kitchen. Even the refrigerator hum seemed to vanish.
Claire didn't flinch. "No, Daniel. You're not. And I'm not waiting until you collapse in front of Ethan. We're going to the doctor."
"I don't need a doctor. I just—"
She cut him off. "—Need to talk to someone before you lose yourself completely."
He paced now. Agitated. The feeling in his chest was wild, fear maybe, or confusion, of grief for something he didn't understand. His hands were shaking.
"Claire,I—I don't know what is happening. I'm scared."
It was the first time he'd admitted anything. His knees buckled just slightly as he leaned against the counter.
Claire stood. "Then let me help you. Please."
There was a pause. And then, without any drama or warning, he slid down to the floor. Not unconscious, but hollow. Like something in him gave up. Shoulders trembling. Hands pressed to his face.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I don't know who I am anymore."
Claire dropped to her knees beside him, holding him like he was a child. No more questions, no more demands. Just silence and arms around someone unraveling.
A moment passed. And then her hand reached into her pocket, pulled out her phone.
"I'm calling Dr. Eleanor Greene," she said softly.