The hospital room smells like antiseptic and lies. I keep my eyes closed, listening to Marcus pace beside my bed. His climbing boots squeak against the linoleum—the custom Salomon boots I helped him choose three years ago when we first partnered up. Back when I still believed we were building something together. "The doctors say she might not remember anything from the past five years," Marcus says, his voice tight with something I can't quite identify. Concern? Or calculation? I hear another set of footsteps enter. Lighter. Deliberate. "That's actually perfect timing," a woman's voice responds. Smooth. Confident. Unfamiliar. "The Patagonia documentary launches next month. If she can't remember the expedition, we can reshoot her segments with fresh perspective. Maybe even reframe the narrative entirely." My heart rate monitor beeps faster. I force myself to breathe slowly, evenly. "Reframe it how?" Marcus asks. "Well, you were always the real visionary on these expeditions, weren't you? The technical expert. Sage was just... the face. The pretty photographer who made it marketable." Sage. That's me. Sage Winters, award-winning wildlife photographer. Except apparently, I'm just "the face." I fell forty feet two days ago while photographing snow leopards in the Himalayas. My harness failed—or so they told me when I woke up. The last thing I remember is checking that harness myself, twice, because Marcus had been rushing me. We were losing light, he'd said. We needed the shot. Now I'm wondering if losing light was really the problem. "Vanessa, that's not—" Marcus starts. "It's exactly what the sponsors want to hear," Vanessa interrupts. "They're investing in you, Marcus. Your expertise. Your vision. Sage's accident is tragic, but it's also an opportunity to correct the narrative before the documentary airs." I want to open my eyes. I want to scream. Instead, I lie perfectly still and listen to the man I've trusted with my life discuss erasing me from my own story. "What about the crew?" Marcus asks quietly. "They were there. They know who planned the routes, who found the locations." "The crew works for the production company," Vanessa says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "The production company works for the sponsors. Everyone understands how this industry operates." Silence stretches between them. Through my closed eyelids, I sense Marcus moving closer to my bed. "She might wake up and remember everything," he says. "Then we'll deal with that if it happens. But right now, while she's vulnerable? This is when you establish the truth. Your truth." My fingers twitch against the sheets. I force them still. The door opens again, and I hear my younger sister Emma's voice, sharp with panic. "What the hell are you doing in here? The nurse said only one visitor at a time." "We're her documentary partners," Vanessa says smoothly. "We're just checking on her condition." "Get out." Emma's voice could cut glass. "Both of you. Now." I hear them leave, Marcus murmuring something apologetic, Vanessa's heels clicking with unbothered confidence. Emma's hand finds mine, squeezes gently. "Sage? Can you hear me?" I could open my eyes. I could tell her everything I just heard. But something stops me. Some instinct honed from years of waiting in blinds for the perfect shot, watching predators reveal themselves when they think no one's looking. Instead, I squeeze her hand weakly and let my eyes flutter open, unfocused and confused. "Emma?" I whisper. "Where... where am I? What happened?" Her face floods with relief and worry. "You're in the hospital. You had an accident. But you're going to be okay." I look around the room slowly, letting genuine fear show on my face. "I don't... I don't remember. Emma, why can't I remember?" And just like that, I make my choice. If they want to see how I perform without my memory, I'll give them exactly that performance. Let's see who reveals their true nature when they think I can't remember mine. ---