After Richard left, I decided to test my strength and attempted to get up from the bed for the first time. My legs felt weak, but surprisingly, I noticed decent muscle definition despite my time spent lying down.
With some effort, I managed to make my way to the bathroom.
Standing in front of the mirror, I examined my reflection. My face looked familiar, slightly above average with a decent jawline.
I could see muscles showing through the hospital shirt. As I raised it to get a better look, I was taken aback by the sight of well-defined muscles—my stomach and chest were more sculpted than I remembered. Sure, I had trained regularly before, but this was on another level entirely.
"Sir. Maxwell?" I heard a voice coming from the room.
As I stepped out of the bathroom, I saw a group of four or five doctors gathered in the room. They looked worried.
The leading doctor, an older man of distinguished stature, stepped forward and introduced himself. "Good Evening, Sir. I'm Chief of the Neurology Department, Dr. World. I've heard that you experienced a memory loss."
His words made me realize that Richard must have informed the doctors about my condition. It struck me as odd that they hadn't checked on this sooner.
"I mean, it's not that bad," I replied, trying to downplay the situation, "but some things seem a bit cloudy."
The examination began with simple tasks. They showed me pictures of various animals and asked me to identify them. Then came math questions, followed by a request to write my name and a sentence about myself. I completed these tasks without much trouble.
But then they moved on to phraseological expressions, and that's where things got tricky. I knew what "cold feet" meant or "getting one's feet wet," but when they asked about phrases like "pull a defect" or "switch the mafia," I was completely lost. There was no way those were real expressions.
In the end, the doctors decided to schedule a magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) in a couple of days. They assured me that with time and some relearning, I should be able to recover. It was just a matter of adjusting to this new reality and filling in the gaps in my memory.
After the examination, they advised me to rest for a while. However, later in the evening, there was another unexpected visitor.
Emily burst into the room, her long dark hair swaying as she hurried over.
She quickly set her purse down and placed her hand on my chest, concern evident in her furrowed brow and the slight tremble of her lower lip.
"I heard the news, Gray. Does it mean that you forgot about us too?" Her hand curled up on the cover, fingers tapping nervously.
As Emily stood there, I struggled to find the right words. Her eyes glistened; she looked like she was about to cry, and for a moment, I wondered how close we were.
"I remember going to high school with you, Emily." I began slowly, trying to piece together the fragments of memory. "I remember your name and how you looked. But... I'm sorry, I don't remember how we became... a thing."
Emily withdrew her hand from my chest, her fingers lingering on the cover for a moment before she settled into the chair beside my bed.
Her face could have graced any fashion modeling magazine, soft and gentle. her skin creamy smooth and clear, her large blue eyes, sparkling like a clear mountain creek. Her lips were cute and rosy.
After a moment of silence, she finally spoke. Her lips formed a gentle curve, and her voice was soft but determined. "Then let me tell you about it. I hope that you will remember. No, I will help you remember."
When she looked at me, I could see hope in her eyes.
In high school, Emily explained, I was always a quiet boy.
That matched the Me in the previous world...
But apparently, I had a good physique and was considered attractive by the girls. She recounted how the other girls admired me from afar but lacked the courage to approach.
So, she was pleasantly surprised when I asked her to prom.
'Me? Invite someone to prom? It seems so out of character.'
As Emily recounted our shared past, she mentioned that I had picked her up to prom in my McLaren, and that memory struck me like a lightning bolt. A McLaren? That meant I was wealthy. Even a used McLaren would cost at least $200,000.
Another thought wormed its way into my mind. If my father truly was involved with the Mafia, then owning such a car felt... illegal as fuck, to say the least.
She told me how, after prom, we shared a kiss and started dating. We both chose Harvard, but while she joined the Bioengineering department, I went to the Art department.
Then, she mentioned the day of the lightning strike.
We had been returning from watching a movie together, planning to head to my single dorm room for an intimate time together, but as soon as we stepped outside the cinema, it started pouring rain.
Emily grabbed an umbrella, trying to shield us from the downpour and I took it from her hand to cover us both.
But then, out of nowhere, lightning hit the umbrella, over and over again.
Her voice shook a bit as she remembered that moment and how scared she was that I might be gone.
She thought I was dead and cried all night, not knowing if I'd ever wake up.
As I looked at her, seeing the pain etched in her eyes, something seemed to shift in my brain. I seemed to have been gaining some of the memories from this version of me, but this wasn't enough to piece the puzzle together.
"I think this helped quite a bit. I seemed to have remembered some things." I said.
"Really?" she whispered.
I nodded.
She reached out and squeezed my hand gently. "Take all the time you need," she said softly.
"But what was that Mafia member doing here today?" She asked suddenly, her expression shifting to a slightly happy or smirk-like one.
It was an odd reaction.
I think she was talking about Richard. But her expression wasn't what I would expect from someone who just found out her boyfriend had connections to the mafia. I would be scared.
"I don't know either," I admitted, feeling a pang of frustration. "I've forgotten quite a bit about my past, and I need to find out for myself."
Before she left, Emily reminded me that I had her contact information in my phone and encouraged me to reach out anytime.
As she walked away, her white shirt tucked in at the waist of her black skirt caught my eye. The skirt ended just above her knees—way up her thighs, really. I could see the wide, dark bands at the top of her stockings.
...
The next morning, Richard came back into my hospital room.
"Time to go, Young Master." he said.
Another blonde guy in a black suit came in to pack my stuff.
I changed into a nice white shirt and black pants. For shoes, Richard gave me some elegant ones that were also comfy.
The next thing I knew, I was walking down the stairs of the hospital. The couple nurses we passed seemed to move out of our way.
When we got outside, there was a sleek black limousine with shaded windows waiting for us.
Another guy in a grey suit held the door open.
"Get in, Young Master. We're going to the base," Rick said from behind me.
I turned around. "Richard... can you not call me Young Master, please? It's cringe."
He smiled. "Then call me Rick."
"Alright, Rick," I said as I stepped into the car. Rick followed after me.
But as I settled into the comfortable leather seat inside the limousine, something clicked in my mind, and this time it wasn't just a feeling.
So much information rushed in at once that my head began to ache, and I had to bend down, holding my head to my knees.
Rick reacted quickly, his hand shooting out to grab my arm. "Sir! Are you okay?" he asked, concern evident in his voice. "Should we go back to the hospital?"
I shook my head, trying to shake off the sudden onslaught of information. "No. It's nothing. Just a momentary headache," I assured him, though my mind was consumed by something at that moment.
"A country is just like one big, organized Mafia," I muttered to myself.
"What was it? Sir?"
"Nothing."