The night was eerily silent, the highway stretching endlessly beneath a curtain of darkness. A girl ran, breath ragged, heart thundering like a war drum inside her chest. Her face was etched with fear, one eye swollen and bruised, a fresh cut tracing the edge like a cruel reminder.

Her bare feet slapped against the rough asphalt, torn and bloodied from the relentless pace. She didn’t look back. Whatever she was running from, it was worse than the pain beneath her skin.

And then—

Headlights.

A car sped around the bend, bright beams cutting through the gloom. Her eyes widened. She froze, like a deer in the path of fate.

She screamed—

And everything went black.

The car screeched to a halt just inches away. The doors burst open. A man stepped out, his breath catching at the sight before him.

Alejandro Martinez.

A name known in every major hospital. A neurosurgeon praised for his brilliance, his composure, his god-like hands.

He dropped to his knees beside her, fingers expertly checking for broken bones, serious trauma, life-threatening signs. Relief washed over him—no fractures, just a shallow gash on her forehead and exhaustion written deep into her fragile frame.

Without wasting a second, he scooped her into his arms, cradling her like something breakable. Settling her gently into the passenger seat, he slammed the door, started the engine, and drove off into the night toward his mansion.

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After few hours

Her eyes fluttered open, heavy with haze.

For a moment, everything was a blur—shadows dancing against golden light seeping through silk curtains. Her vision sharpened slowly, revealing a lavish room that felt far too grand to be real. A king-size bed beneath her. Marble floors. Chandeliers. A quiet luxury humming in the air.

She turned her head, sluggishly, and saw him.

A man—no, a devastatingly handsome man—sat on a swinging chair by the window. Dressed in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up, his head leaned back and eyes closed. He looked like a painting—perfect, still, unreadable.

She stirred.

A sharp pain shot through her skull, forcing a hiss from her lips. That sound was enough.

He was at her side in seconds.

His eyes—piercing and alert—locked onto hers with concern. Gently, he helped her sit up, his touch surprisingly warm.

“You’ve been unconscious for a few hours,” he said, voice low and calming. “That’s why everything feels heavy.”

He reached for the nightstand, retrieved a tablet and a glass of water, then extended them toward her.

“Here,” he added softly. “Take this. It’ll help.”

She took the tablet and gulp it down with a sip of water, the coldness calming against her dry throat. A few minutes passed, and the pounding in her head began to ease.

Her gaze slowly shifted back to the man beside her.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice hoarse and uncertain.

He gave her a soft smile, calm and composed, and extended his hand.

“Just for formality,” he said gently. “Alejandro Martinez.”

She stared at the hand for a moment before reaching out, her fingers trembling slightly as they met his in a hesitant shake.

“I’m…”

Her words faltered.

A confusion swept across her face like a storm. She tried again—mentally grasping for something familiar, anything to cling to. But all she found was a blank void.

Her brows furrowed. Panic began to rise as a sharp ache tugged at the edges of her skull. She winced.

Alejandro noticed instantly.

“Hey… hey, it’s okay,” he said, his voice soothing and steady. “Don’t panic. Sometimes memory loss happens after trauma. Don’t pressure your brain right now.”

She looked at him with wide, desperate eyes. Her breaths came quicker, uneven.

“Why… why can’t I remember myself?” she whispered, her voice cracking.

Alejandro moved closer, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“Because whatever you went through… it was too much. Your mind is protecting you. We’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”

She stared down at her lap, fingers clenched into the bedsheet, still trying to absorb the weight of her forgotten identity. The silence stretched between them—thick, fragile.

Then Alejandro spoke, his tone shifting—calmer, but edged with seriousness.

“Besides… your name is Maya.”

Her head snapped up. Wide eyes met his.

“What?” she breathed. “How do you know?”

He held her gaze for a beat, unreadable. Then, a quiet chuckle escaped him—more out of gentleness than amusement. He reached into his pocket and pulled something out.

A delicate pendant.

Silver. Slightly worn. But clearly engraved.

Maya.

He held it out toward her in the palm of his hand.

“You were wearing this when I found you,” he said.

She reached out with trembling fingers, taking the pendant from his hand. Her throat tightened as she traced the letters—her name—but still felt like a stranger to it.

“Maya…” she whispered, tasting it like it belonged to someone else.

Alejandro watched her quietly, the softness in his eyes shadowed by something deeper. Something he didn’t say.

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Across the City —

Flash.

The camera clicked again, casting sharp light over the grim shadows of the apartment floor. Two lifeless bodies lay sprawled on the polished wood, their eyes wide open, staring at nothing. Blood stained the floor beneath them, dark and drying.

The room reeked of silence—the kind that followed violence.

Detectives and forensics moved with hushed efficiency, gloved hands bagging evidence, photographing every trace. At the center of it all stood Officer Lopez, the lead officer in charge, his sharp gaze slowly scanning the room with practiced calculation.

He moved toward the broken trail of blood that stretched across the floor and out the front door, as if someone had fled—fast and wounded.

His eyes flicked to the wall, where a set of photo frames hung askew. A smiling couple, arms around each other, radiating joy. A stark contrast to the horror that now filled the room.

Just then, his assistant approached, holding a notepad and wearing a grim expression.

“The woman,” he began, “was strangled. No fingerprints. Likely with cable ties or something similar—clean, efficient. The husband’s body has scratch marks… defensive wounds. He either tried to protect himself—or someone else might be.”

Officer Lopez turned toward him, still rubbing his chin, eyes narrowing.

“And the wife?”

The assistant hesitated.

“She’s missing. No body. And the back window—it’s open. Oddly so. From the outside. Looks like someone may have entered or escaped through it.”

Lopez’s jaw tightened. He walked to the window, crouched down, and peered into the  alley behind the building. Something about this didn’t sit right.

“Search the entire apartment,” he ordered. “Talk to every neighbor in this building. I want a list of every visitor in the past week—and check the surveillance cams on nearby streets. Someone’s running. And I want to know who.”

Officer Lopez’s gaze swept the bedroom, eyes catching on a photo frame resting on the bedside table—an ornate, customized piece nestled beside a half-finished glass of water and a book left open mid-page.

He stepped closer.

The picture was of the same smiling couple—radiant, young, alive. But what caught his eye wasn’t their expressions. It was the engraving etched into the wooden border of the frame, delicate and personal:

Carlos Fernandez & Maya Fernandez

His mind replayed the assistant’s report.

“The wife is missing.”

He turned to the others in the room, voice low but urgent.

“Get this frame bagged. And send out an alert—citywide.

We’re looking for a missing person. Maya Fernandez.”

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Maya stirred restlessly in her sleep, her breath uneven.

Images flickered behind her closed lids—sharp, broken flashes.

A glinting knife.

A struggle.

Voices shouting.

Blood—so much blood.

She gasped awake, jolting upright in the bed as if ripped from the nightmare. Her chest heaved. Skin damp. Sweat clung to her forehead and neck.

Disoriented, she reached for the glass of water on the nightstand with trembling hands, bringing it to her lips. She gulped it down too quickly, some of it spilling onto her collarbone. Then, she wiped her forehead and pressed her palm to her temples.

What was that…?

The images had been too vivid. Too real.

Not like a dream—more like a memory clawing its way back from the dark.

Her mind spun, the heaviness in her chest growing.

Why do I feel like I’m trapped in a maze… and there’s no way out?

She closed her eyes again, but the silence of the room now felt suffocating. Somewhere deep inside, something was trying to resurface. And it terrified her.

This is my new story. It's a thriller dark romance.