Maëlys left Eliott's tattoo parlor in a daze, the phantom screams of her flashback still ringing in her ears. The dog tag, forgotten on the counter, felt like a burning weight in her mind, a tangible link to the horrors she was finally beginning to unearth. Eliott's face, etched with fear and that maddening silence, offered no comfort, only solidified her resolve. She wouldn't beg for answers anymore. She would find them herself.
Back at her house, the quiet no longer felt like a sanctuary. It was a prison, holding her captive with her own fragmented memories. She needed more. She needed concrete facts, something outside the swirling chaos of her mind. Her gaze fell on the small, battered laptop she'd bought when she arrived, mostly for mundane tasks. Now, it was her only weapon.
She started with the basics: searching for news archives from the date etched on the dog tag. The local papers, then regional ones. Her fingers trembled over the keyboard, each click a step closer to a truth she wasn't sure she wanted to uncover.
The results began to trickle in, cold and impersonal. A small article in a local gazette, then a more detailed report from a larger city newspaper. "Tragic Accident Claims Life of Young Woman, Leaves Companion Critically Injured."
Companion. Critically Injured. Her.
Her breath hitched. She scrolled down, her eyes scanning for names. The name of the deceased woman hit her with the force of a physical blow: Léonie Dubois. The 'L'. A strangled sound escaped her throat. Léonie. The name resonated with a profound, aching sorrow she couldn't explain, yet felt deep in her bones. She had known Léonie. She had loved Léonie.
The article detailed the crash: a single vehicle, late at night, on a winding coastal road. The same road where Maëlys had found herself the night Eliott had held her. The same road that haunted her nightmares. It listed the injured survivor: "Maëlys Dupont, 25, suffering from severe head trauma and memory loss."
Her own name. Staring back at her from a cold news report, confirming her identity, confirming her trauma. She was the one who had survived. But at what cost?
She scrolled further, desperate for more. There was no mention of a third person, no Eliott. But then, a small detail in a follow-up piece caught her eye: "The vehicle, a vintage convertible, belonged to Liam Thorne, a local tattoo artist known for his custom designs."
Liam Thorne.
The name hit her like a lightning bolt. Not Eliott. But a tattoo artist. And the convertible… it was the same model that had flashed in her most violent nightmares. The pieces, though still fragmented, were beginning to align in a terrifying mosaic.
Eliott. Liam. Two names, two tattoo artists, linked to her, linked to the accident, linked to Léonie. Was Eliott Liam? Or were they connected in another way? His tattoos, his mysterious knowledge, his sudden appearance in her life… it all pointed to an intricate, horrifying web. He hadn't just been drawn to her. He had been a part of it all along.
A cold, bitter resolve settled over her. This wasn't about memory loss anymore. This was about a truth that had been hidden from her, meticulously, perhaps maliciously. She closed the laptop, the screen reflecting her own wide, haunted eyes. The silence of the house was now filled with the roar of a new purpose. She was no longer running from her past. She was hunting it. And Eliott, whether he was Liam or someone else, was going to give her the answers, one way or another.