He wakes to a taste of iron and the indeterminate glow of a motel lamp. The room is wrong in small, accumulating ways: a picture frame hung slightly off, the remote missing batteries, the coffee mug still warm though the bed hasn't been slept in. He cannot remember how he got here—only that a name, a phrase, a memory fragment keeps pressing like a thumb against the back of his skull: Manhunt 2. Not the game, he tells himself; words are slippery when you're trying to fix yourself.
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Outside the window the city exhales neon and rain. He pulls on his coat and walks until the streets thin and the sound of passing tires becomes a distant, persistent pulse. Every face he passes briefly smiles too widely, or stares with a small, exacting curiosity. He begins to suspect that memory itself has become a ledger, a record he is being asked to reconcile. He wakes to a taste of iron and
