A crash plunges me into consciousness. My eyes crack open to a divided room, half in shadow, half lit in neon pink light. A high pitch rings in my ears, and pain splits my veins.

One, two, three, four. Seconds tick by before the drone dissipates into a mere echo, leaving unnerving silence in its wake.

My chest heaves up and down. I'm panting, though I'm not sure why. I'm not really sure of anything except the sizzle around my wrists, the throb rendering my muscles motionless. Cushions support my body, keep me from melting or breaking, disintegrating into dust. My finger twitches against something soft and slightly bouncy. The word 'mattress' comes to mind, followed by the word 'blankets.' Perhaps that's the bundle of voluminous fabric at my feet.

I blink several times to clear the haze in my head, the blur in my vision. A desk comes into focus, as does a flipped over chair, a cracked mirror, a broken vase. Tattered curtains flap in the window, the translucent fabric barely containing the outside lights. I push myself upright, grimacing as pain shoots through my hands and chest again. A red line encircles both my wrists, perhaps the cause of my discomfort. I stare at the marks seared into my flesh for a second before my eyes drift to the left.

A man lays unmoving in the bed. I can only stare at him while a jumble of thoughts toss and turn in my skull. I can't quite make sense of the scene, yet I can. His fate is obvious in his impossible wide eyes, frozen in permanent shock, or maybe terror. The white part looks like it's in the process of popping out, the brown irises halfway to freedom. The man barely takes up space on the huge mattress, which I now see has wires pressing against the thin base. He wears a brown, slim suit, and the skeletal hands poking from his sleeves are beat red with blistering gold spots, similar to the skin on his face. With an elongated head, he looks almost like a rat — a dead one.

Thoughts finally align in my head. Where am I? Who is he?

Questions bubble in my head, slow at first, a single bubble at a time. Then they come faster, like a permeated spring.

What am I doing here? How did I get here? Why am I in pain? What was that noise I heard? Why that noise in my ears? Is it normal to wake up next to a dead person?

The trouble is that I seem to understand just enough to confuse. This is a room. There is a dead person. There is an ear splitting noise. This sensation coursing through me is pain.

But I can not recall enough for it to make sense. And as the questions race faster and faster, so does my pulse. So does the inexplicable panic rising in my chest.

Who am I?

Footsteps pound out the silence, followed by a bang. I swing my legs over the bed only for my foot to smack something, a black duffel bag bursting at its seams. Curious, I pull the string around the top open. Bills stare back at me, piles and piles of them all crammed into one place. Murmuring drifts from the hallway, then another two bangs rattle the room. I slip to the door, peering out of a tiny glass circle. Men and women in black, mesh fabric jumpsuits swarm the halls. On their backs, in white letters, are the letters "EO."

My brow clenches. I've heard of EO before, EOs in reference to a group of people, but I can't place it. It bothers me like an unscratchable itch.

A woman kicks a door in, shining a long-barreled gun inside. No, that can't be right. Guns don't have lights on them. Perhaps it's a light that looks like a gun.

How do I know what a gun is? I don't think it's a question I've ever considered before, but at this moment, I need answers. Analyzing what I know is the best place to start.

"Not in here," I hear someone say. "Where the democritus is he?"

"Unsure," another murmurs.

Steel flies inward left and right. At least I know the cause of the crashes and bangs. More whispers buzz outside the door. The group is advancing to my door. In each one, they repeat the same routine: bust the door, check inside, murmur to each other, move on. I hear no screams or confused mumbling from the rooms, nor do I see anyone emerge from the rooms other than those in EO attire. The longer I watch them, the more certain I become that I'm the only person in these rooms. The only living person, that is.

"He did ask for backup."

I turn around, facing the body on the bed. If he and I are the only people here, if he's the only male in the building, then they might be looking for him. But why look for a dead man?

"Officer Dyea, report in," a staticy voice breaks in.

A woman with black hair tied in a bun steps away from the group, right in front of my door. "We haven't found her or Officer Cryo yet. Cryo isn't answering his radio, either."

"Radio him again. Report back after."

"Will do."

The doors across from my room are next. Noise crackles from the bed, from the dead man.

"Cryo, this is Officer Dyea. Do you read me?"

No response. Dead men do not speak.

"Officer Cryo, where are you? Do you read me?"

The entourage pauses outside the door. My breathing has quickened again. Stale oxygen enters my lungs in quick, steady streams.

"Inspector, this is Officer Dyea."

"I read you."

"Officer Cryo still does not respond."

Silence. My heart beats once, twice, thrice.

"Then we must assume that he's been terminated. We're looking for a killer and a dead body."

My pulse thrums in my sore wrists. My head swims, thoughts plummeting into unprocessable depths before resurfacing with a thousand more questions. I glance once more at the bed.

I can't stay here. They're looking for two, a live killer and a dead man. Unfortunately, I can only fit one of those categories. If they find me in here, they'll assume I killed him.

Maybe I did. I have no memories to confirm or deny such action. The thought sends a chill down my spine.

The voice crackles outside. "Search the rest of the rooms. Search the whole building if you have to. But find them both."

I race across the room, as light on my feet as possible. Not a floorboard creaks, though the rushing blood in my ears might conceal a whiny spot. The curtains billow out with a gust of cold air, giving full view to my way of escape — the window.

I pause for a moment by the bed, by the duffel bag. The cash is a whole other puzzle. On the one hand, I feel an urge to take it. I feel like I need it. On the other hand, the EOs might be able to trace it. I decide to do what any rational human would. I grab a handful, shove it underneath my slim-fitting zipped jacket, and run for it. My slender frame fits easily through the wide open space, and I drop over the ledge just as the door crashes open.

My body smacks into glass. I scramble down, clinging to the black, metal bars running alongside the building. A few green bills float away, but I can hardly care. My only instinct is to flee.

Cars screech and honk below, and bright lights worsen my headache. I walk my hands across the narrow siding, moisture slickening my fingertips. Two windows separate me from the room I escaped, then three. Weight bears down on my already aching wrists. They're about to give out, to collapse, letting me fall. I peek at the ground below, so far down that it's only a gray blur. Wind whips by, and I pause, curling my fingers against the metal to keep from plummeting.

A pellet whizzes by my face. I glance up to see a barrel poking from a window. The black-bun EO, Dyea, is on the other end of it. So I guess the barrel doubles as a gun and a light. An indistinct shout pierces through the rushing in my ears, and my hands swing back to action. They shimmy along the cold metal in tiny, rapid steps.

Several more blue pellets shoot by. My arms tremble and burn with exertion as I force myself to move faster. Aches sneak into my finger bones as they squeeze the ledge tighter and tighter. A searing, electric shock prickles my neck.

I swing to my left arm, but the momentum yanks my grasp from the metal siding. Panic flutters in my chest, my lungs, as I freefall toward distant gray ground. Blue droplets surge around me. Dots of pain explode on my hands, neck, cheeks, and ankles — anywhere that skin is exposed. My hands shoot out before my speed accelerates too fast, catching hold of another line of siding. I smash into the building. Air crushes from my lungs, and I heave in a breath before continuing.

Left-right. Left-right.

My hands move as a unit, palms digging into the sharp metal edges to keep me in the air. When one lifts, the other clasps the ledge. Red bullseyes pockmark my skin, but the pellet's sting is but a whisper of pain. Desperation overrides my senses. I have one concern: escape the EOs.

Blue flashes in my peripheral, and I swing to my right arm. My side hits the glass, jolting my grasp again. I fall, air funneling around me as I pick up speed. Fear spikes in my veins. Black lines blur together, the glass too slick to grasp on its own. Gray pavement is approaching fast. It's about to hit me like a freight train.

Disk. There's a shiny, rounded box flying past me. I grab it without thinking, wrapping my arms around it. It dips in the air before regaining height, soaring over bridges packed with cars and terraces protruding from buildings. I drink in the cold air despite the fumes permeating it. My heart races in my chest, and I can barely breathe.

I glance over my shoulder. Skyscrapers blur together into a singular, reflective surface. The one I just escaped is indistinguishable, and the EOs are long gone. I face forward just as another 3D disk zooms toward me. I duck with a tiny gasp. My legs swing to the side with just enough force to shake my box's course. The navy box grazes my silver-streaked hair. Several more boxes funnel around me; many more occupy the air. I have to get off this thing.

After several minutes, the box dives toward the ground. As we pass by an ally, I release my hold on it, rolling into shadows. The ground moistens my black jacket and pants, which are so tight and soft, they feel like a second skin. I unzip the top to retrieve the bills I stashed inside. Though the jacket's tight fit is constricting, at least it preserved them during my escape. A few green papers flutter onto the ground. I snatch them up, shoving them into the inside pockets I find.

Two tall buildings shade me from the street's raucous, all the shouting and honking and the footsteps. I take a moment to breathe, to let my heart rate slow. Pain creeps back into my awareness, searing my muscles and nerves. I shut my eyes in an attempt to blot it out. They squeeze tighter and tighter until they ache just like the rest of me.

"Attention! Attention, citizens of Eula!" a voice booms.

I peek outside of the alley at massive screens mounted atop the surrounding high-rises. Images flash at all levels, from the very tops to the ground, where I am. They depict a slender female, young but not a child, hanging off the side of a glass building. Her black hair blends with her attire, except for the silver streaking it.

"Wanted!" the announcement says. "Wanted for the murder of Officer Cryo."