The Forgotten Code

Pain. Blinding, raw, pulsing pain. Nick awoke with a strangled gasp, his body buried in pine needles and ice. His bloodstained clothing stuck to his flesh. The trees above moved in slow, staggering cycles. Something was buzzing in his ears like static or distant voices. He tried to sit up. Pain exploded from his side. His fingers shook as they reached down and came away wet and sticky. Blood. A gunshot wound. His heart thudded. Fast. No memory. No face. No name. Just pain. And fear. Nick forced his body to move. He crawled toward the nearest tree, dragging himself with one arm while the other pressed against his bleeding side. Snow crunched under his knees. The cold barely registered. There was a note in his jacket pocket. Crumpled. Damp. He unfolded it with trembling hands. Just one line, written in shaky black ink: “Don’t trust the man who saved you.” What man? What did it mean? A twig snapped in the distance. He froze. Another snap closer this time. Heavy boots on dead leaves. Someone was coming. Instinct screamed: Run. But where? He didn’t even know where here was. Nick gritted his teeth and pushed himself up. His legs held, barely. He stumbled toward the deeper woods, half-running, half-falling. His breath came in hot clouds. Every step was agony. Voices floated through the trees. “He couldn’t have gotten far.” Another voice: “If he’s still breathing, we take him back. If not, leave him.” Panic shot through him like lightning. He moved faster, lungs burning, until he spotted an old hunting blind—half-rotted but still standing. He climbed in and collapsed on the wood floor. He held his fist to his mouth to keep from screaming. The footsteps drew closer. Two men walked beneath the blind. One had a rifle slung across his back. The other scanned the trees. “I told you we should’ve killed him,” the first one muttered. “Why take chances?” “Trent said he’s valuable. His code’s still in there somewhere.” Nick’s breath caught. Trent. Code. What code? The men passed. Silence returned. He waited until darkness fell before climbing down. He moved slowly, hand pressed to his side. No more voices. No more footsteps. But no more answers either. He made it to a road just before dawn. A narrow stretch of icy blacktop, surrounded by nothing but trees and silence. A single pair of headlights appeared in the distance. Nick raised one hand before collapsing face-first into the snow. When he opened his eyes again, he was indoors—bare walls, a cot, old medical equipment. He blinked against the white light above him. “You’re awake.” A soft voice. Female. Nick turned his head to see her. She stood inside the doorway, rubbing her hands. She appeared to have not slept. Dark hair framed a tired yet attractive face.. He tried to speak. “Where…?” "You're in my clinic," she stated, maintaining her distance. "I found you at the side of the road.. You were bleeding… I had to take the bullet out. I did my best, I—” He sat up too quickly. Pain stabbed through his ribs. The woman stepped back. “You were talking in your sleep. Saying names. Places.” “What names?” “I don’t remember. Something about… code? And someone named Trent?” His heart raced. "What's your name?" He asked. “Leah,” she said. “I’m not… I mean, I’m not supposed to help strangers, but—” He pulled his legs out of the cot. The entire room turned. “Easy,” Leah said, holding out a hand. “You lost a lot of blood. At least let me—” He caught her wrist. Gently. But firmly. She froze. "I can't remember who I was, he confessed “But I think some people are trying to kill me. And I might’ve done something to deserve it.” Leah prepared soup that evening and placed it on a plate outside the room. She didn't say much. He can't blame her for being afraid. Sitting quietly, Nick stared at his reflection in the mirror.. Who was he? What had he done? He had flashes—gunfire, running, a woman crying his name. He didn’t know her face. Just the sound of her voice. He lifted his shirt and examined the bandages. Clean work. She had steady hands. But he noticed something else. Just under his ribs, a hard bump beneath the skin. Not bone. Not scar tissue. A chip. He woke up the following morning to the sound of glass breaking. Before he could think, he was standing. From the kitchen, Leah let out a scream. Three men. Masks. Guns. He didn’t wait. He moved like something inside him had been trained for this. He disarmed the first man with one twist, slammed his head into the wall. The second raised a gun—Nick kicked it out of his hand, drove a fist into his throat. The third tried to run. Nick caught him at the door and slammed him to the ground. It was over in seconds. Leah stood in the corner, trembling. Nick was breathing fast, with blood on his hands and his eyes wide open. "I didn't know I could do that," he said quietly.. Leah backed away. “Who are you?” He looked back at her after looking down at the man moaning on the ground. "I'm not sure," he said. "However, I believe I have to find out before they do."