Chapter One: The Vanishing Point (Part 1)
1083 Words
They said the human body could survive more than it was meant to. That trauma left fingerprints, not just on the skin but on the soul.
Ivy Marlowe had lived long enough to believe that was true.
She opened her eyes to silence—not the comforting kind, but the sterile stillness of something unfinished. The room around her smelled faintly of antiseptic and stale water. A dim light buzzed overhead, flickering just enough to make the shadows feel alive.
She didn't remember how she got there.
Her limbs were heavy. A faint, mechanical beep somewhere to her left told her she was still attached to something—probably a heart monitor. She blinked against the stiffness in her eyelids and tried to sit up, but a jolt of pain stabbed through her shoulder and down her side.
“Easy,” came a voice. Male. Calm. Trained.
She turned her head slowly and caught sight of a man in plain scrubs, clipboard in hand. Late thirties, maybe older, with tired eyes and a jaw that hadn’t seen a razor in days. There was no name tag.
“Where…?” Her voice cracked. Dry as gravel.
“You’re in a private clinic outside Ashbridge,” he said, offering her a plastic cup of water. “Small town. Off the map. You’ve been here three days.”
Three days.
The words bounced around in her skull like bullets.
She took the water. Her hand trembled as she drank, but she didn’t stop. Her throat burned, but the ache was oddly grounding. Real. Something to anchor her.
He waited a beat, then added, “You were brought in unconscious. No ID. No cell. Just you, a burned coat, and a camera bag.”
A camera bag.
The words hit her like a slap.
She remembered—flashes more than memories: The hotel ballroom. Glass chandeliers. Laughter. A speech she wasn’t listening to. Her fingers twitching on her camera as she scanned the room through the lens. And then—light. Heat. Screams.
An explosion.
Her heart rate jumped. The machine confirmed it with a chorus of sharp beeps.
“I need…” Her breath quickened. “I need to get out of here. I need to—”
“Breathe.” The man raised his hand calmly. “You’re not a prisoner. But you’re also not safe out there. Not yet.”
She looked at him sharply. “What do you mean?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped aside and reached for something behind a tray. A mirror. Small. Handheld.
He offered it to her wordlessly.
Ivy took it with a growing sense of dread and turned it toward her face.
At first, it didn’t register.
Then the air left her lungs.
A raw, angry scar slashed across the left side of her face—from temple to jawline, still red and puffy beneath the stitches. Her cheek looked like it had melted and reformed. One eye was bruised. Her lower lip was split and healing. It was her face, but not her face. Not the one the world knew. Not the one on the back of her bestselling memoir, not the one featured on documentary posters.
“I… I don’t…” Her throat closed.
“Blast injuries,” the doctor said quietly. “Shrapnel tore through the side of your face and chest. It’s a miracle you survived.”
“Others didn’t,” she whispered.
He gave a slow nod. “No. They didn’t.”
The weight of those words sank deep. Ivy clenched her hands to stop the shaking, but her body wouldn’t listen. She closed her eyes, forcing back tears she didn’t remember earning. Then a name floated to the surface.
“Danika,” she breathed. “Danika Ellis. She was with me. A journalist. She—she invited me.”
The man’s face darkened slightly. “I saw her name on the list. She didn’t make it.”
Ivy’s breath hitched. Grief pooled behind her ribs like water behind a dam. But grief could wait. Survival couldn’t.
“Why am I here?” she asked. “Who brought me?”
The man hesitated, then said, “A boy found you. Said you were lying in the dirt behind the hotel. Dragged you two blocks in a tarp. We only know this because he told the nurse before he vanished. No name. Just gone.”
Ivy’s head spun. “Why didn’t anyone report me? The press—the police—someone must be looking.”
He leaned against the wall. “They are. But not for you.”
“What?”
“You were listed among the dead. Facial burns. No ID. They couldn’t match you. Official word is that Ivy Marlowe died in the Vireon Gala bombing with twenty-seven others.”
She froze.
“No,” she said.
“It’s true. I watched the footage. Your face showed up once in the background. You were seen entering the building, then nothing.”
“I need to go to the police,” Ivy said, swinging her legs off the cot. “Tell them I’m alive—”
“Alive and being hunted,” the doctor cut in. “Do you really think the people who bombed a federal-backed biotech gala during a live stream are going to let the only survivor with a working memory walk free?”
She stared at him.
“You think it wasn’t an accident.”
“I think accidents don’t plant secondary devices and erase identities.”
A heavy silence fell over the room. Ivy clenched her jaw.
Then he added, “And I think someone wanted you dead, specifically.”
Her heart dropped into her stomach.
It wasn’t possible. She wasn’t even working anymore—not really. Since her breakdown in Syria, she'd sworn off frontlines. No more war zones. No more rebel interviews. Just small exposés, human stories, and the occasional ghostwriting project. The Vireon gala had been a favor. Danika had asked her to photograph it for a private series. A biotech event wasn’t supposed to end in blood.
Unless Danika had known something.
Unless Ivy had seen something.
She touched the camera bag on the table beside her. The lenses were cracked, but the memory cards inside…
She looked up at the man.
“You said I’m not safe,” she murmured. “What happens now?”
He shrugged, his voice even. “That depends on what you do next.”
- Writer
