He woke that morning with blood on his hands. Not to mention every other surface in the area.

A plush room that probably once held a beautiful trove of expensive and refined decor was now merely a space of crimson shades, like those weird art exhibits where every part is just painted to a plastic look in different monochromes. Except he instinctively knew if he brushed a hand on any part, it would flake onto his fingers. That if he put those fingers to his mouth, he’d taste raw iron. That that iron taste was a symbol of a victory the night before, he felt his lips twist up just thinking about it. But he also knew that he had no recollection of any of it. Not the blood, or his involvement, or even his own name.

He didn’t have long to ponder in it, as a young woman approached. Her clacking high heels as red as the floor, leaving smudged windows of maroon that revealed the original wood paneling in her wake. He waited until she approached the bed, eyeing her all the way. She was refined, with what he could tell was a carefully selected wardrobe. The kind that meant extensive money and people with similarly extensive opinions. He hair went just past her shoulders in a swirling cascade of waves and curls. Well cared for, and the sign of a diligent hand. Just looking at her he could tell these things. What he couldn’t tell though was what she was to him.

“It seems last night was a success,” she smiled.

“So it does,” he replied with as much indifference he assumed normal for a man that might coat an entire room with blood overnight. He wondered only then where it might have come from. Had he disposed of the bodies the night before?

“So I presume you’ll be moving onto stage two?” Her voice bringing him out of his reverie.

This was only stage one? His thoughts roared, even as his subconscious bubbled with pure delight. What was stage two? How often did he do this? So many questions.

But “Not quite yet,” was all he replied, trying to keep the face of confidence that would make it seem like he knew what he was doing. “I’d like a few moments alone here.”

“Understandable. Your suit is on the bathroom counter, I think you’ll really like it this time. I’ll be waiting in the car.”

He waited until the clacking of her shoes had faded and jumped up off the bed, looking down to realize he’d been butt naked this entire time. Not only that but the woman hadn’t even blinked over it. Was that the kind of thing he did casually? Or just with her?

Making his way to the bathroom he quickly showered, aggressively removing any remain of last night’s escapades. Tugging on the suit, he found that it was fitted perfectly to him. That was when he looked up to see his own reflection in the mirror. Clean-shaven, pretty generic face, with a short cut to his black hair. It wasn’t the face of someone on a magazine, but it was a face of familiarity. The one familiar thing, if anything. At least he knew now that this was definitely him. He hadn’t had his brain switched out with someone else’s by aliens or anything like those sci-fi movies. He probably had amnesia and it would all come back to him soon. That’s what he hoped at least.

He wasn’t sure how long he could keep up the act of a serial murderer with his experience of….blankness. Utter nothing. He seemed to have all the muscle memory needed, but the actual contents of his brain was truly empty. And he wasn’t sure how long he’d last on just that. But something told him he couldn’t let anyone know his current state of mind. Dread filled him every time he thought of it, though he knew not why.

Determination filled him as he slipped in the last few buttons of his jacket. Finally, he leaned both hands over the counter, meeting his own eyes in the glass.

“I don’t know who you are or what you did, but I’m going to find out.”