The rain had just begun to fall when Mira slipped out of the car. The asylum loomed above her — an ancient structure of grey stone and shadow, its iron gates creaking as if warning her to turn back. She pulled her hood tighter, the fabric brushing against her cheeks, and glanced around. The guards were distracted by a delivery truck at the far end of the gate. Perfect.
Her pulse thrummed as she slipped through the side entrance, her sneakers squeaking faintly on the polished linoleum.
The air inside smelled of antiseptic and something faintly metallic — the scent of sterilized despair.
She walked quickly, head bowed, face hidden by the oversized hoodie. A badge she'd "borrowed" from the coat rack earlier in Alden's study hung around her neck. It wasn't perfect — but enough to make her look like she belonged.
When she reached the restricted ward, Mira stopped.
Behind thick glass doors and flickering lights lay the hall of the forgotten — the patients Alden never mentioned.
Her breath fogged against the glass as she scanned the room numbers. Then, she saw it: Cunayet Vural — Cell 312.
She slipped in when a nurse exited, timing her steps perfectly. Her heart beat so loud she was sure the cameras could hear it. The hallway beyond was colder — quieter — the only sound a faint buzz of fluorescent light.
When she finally stood in front of his cell, she froze.
Cunayet lay on his side on a narrow bed, his face turned toward the wall. His hair was longer now, a mess of dark curls. He didn't move, didn't even glance at her. The silence stretched until Mira, gathering her nerve, knocked softly on the glass.
A single beat passed. Then his voice — low, mocking — slid through the intercom.
"Your husband won't like this, you know."
Mira's breath hitched.
She glanced around to make sure no one was near, then whispered, "I just want one answer. Who am I — and how do you know me?"
Cunayet chuckled — a dry, humourless sound. "That's two questions."
"I know," she said, her voice trembling but insistent. "Please."
For a moment, he didn't move. Then he sat up, slowly, his eyes fixed somewhere on the floor. "Number one — I don't know you, okay? Maybe saw you once… twice. That's it."
He stood and tried to walk toward her, but his steps faltered, his hand gripping the wall for balance. His voice grew softer, distant — as if speaking from inside a dream.
"But I do know this… You don't belong where you are now."
Her fingers tightened around the clipboard she'd brought as a prop. "Can you at least give me something to start looking for myself?"
He rubbed his face tiredly, his eyes unfocused.
"I don't know…" he muttered, leaning back against the wall. "Everything's fog… faces blend together."
Mira's voice broke. "Then why do you talk in riddles?"
That smirk returned — faint, but real this time. "Why else do you think I'm in here, sunshine?"
She swallowed hard, her pulse echoing in her ears.
He hesitated, as if fighting to recall something through layers of static memory. Then, finally, he spoke again — slower now, more strained.
"But… I'll give you one thing. If I remember correctly…"
His eyelids fluttered. "Ozz… Ozz… I don't know… Ozan, yes. That's it."
"Ozan?" Mira repeated, her heart stopping for a beat.
"Find out what happened to Ozan," he murmured, pressing a trembling hand to the glass. "You'll find yourself."
And then — his eyes rolled back.
"Cunayet!" she hissed, panic flooding her chest as he collapsed onto the floor.
Alarms didn't go off — not yet — but she knew it was only seconds before someone came. She turned and bolted down the corridor, pulling her hood up again, heart pounding like thunder.
By the time the nurses rushed toward the room, Mira had already slipped out the back door, swallowed by the rain and the dark.
The evening air hit her like a slap.
Her breaths came in shaky bursts as she stumbled toward her car, repeating the name under her breath, like a curse — or a key.
Ozan.
Who was Ozan?
And why did that name feel like something buried deep inside her — something she should already know?