No Linda in the hallway.
No Ryan opening doors without knocking.
No criticism disguised as concern.
No one asking when I would come home and become smaller.
My reflection stared back from the dark window: bald, pale, exhausted, alive.
My phone lit once.
Unknown number.
A text appeared.
You think you won because they held me for a few hours?
Another message followed.
You don’t even know what name you married.
Then a third.
Ask Linda what happened to the real Ryan.
I read the words twice.
Then I forwarded them to Sarah.
Outside, the base lights burned steady through the dark.
Inside, I understood something with perfect clarity.
My war had not begun when Linda shaved my head.
It had begun years before I ever met Ryan.
And now, finally, I had found the battlefield.
PART 4 — A House Built on Stolen Names
By morning, the story had divided itself into two worlds.
