I got discharged a week later.
The doctors released me with a folder full of paperwork and a handshake that felt less like 'get well soon' and more like 'don't come back.' I flipped through the pages on the way out — medical forms, insurance claims, a discharge summary.
Patient Name: Vincent Elias Dorrington.
Age: 21
I stopped walking.
Dorrington. Even the name sounded expensive. Like it belonged on a building or a yacht, not a hospital bracelet.
"Vin? You coming?"
Vi was already at the elevator, holding the door.
I looked up. Folded the papers. Stuck them in my pocket.
"Yeah," I said. "Coming."
She drove, of course. Didn't even ask if I remembered how to get home. She just put the key in the ignition and said, "Buckle up, Vin. You used to hate this rule."
I buckled up.
Some habits are easier to learn than others.
The car was a black Porsche 911 Turbo S. Low. Quiet. The kind of car I used to watch on YouTube, telling myself passenger seat was ambitious enough.
I couldn't help it. I ran my fingers over the leather seat. It was soft. Probably from a cow that had a better life than I did.
"You're being weird," Vi said, not taking her eyes off the road.
"I don't remember this car."
"It's yours. You named it."
I waited.
"Shadow," she said.
I looked around the interior. Dark leather. Dark trim. Dark windows.
"Did I now."
"You were seventeen." She glanced at me. "Don't judge younger you."
I wasn't judging. I was trying to figure out what kind of person names their car and then decides it's fine.
"Vincent?"
The way she said it — soft. Careful. Like she was handling something that might break — made me look up.
"You don't remember the car, you don't remember me, what do you remember?"
Honest answer? Cheap vodka. A Tuesday. The sound a truck makes right before it ends your life.
"Not much," I said.
She nodded. Kept her eyes on the road. But her grip on the steering wheel tightened. "We're almost home."
Home. I didn't know what that meant anymore.
***
She parked the Porsche in an underground garage that looked cleaner than any hospital I'd ever been in.
"We're here," she said.
I got out. Followed her to an elevator. She pressed a button. The doors closed.
The elevator opened into a hallway. One door. She unlocked it.
It was a penthouse. Of course it was a penthouse.
"This is... our place?" I asked. Kept my voice flat. It came out deeper than I expected. I'd been speaking since the hospital, but somehow I hadn't really noticed until now. This wasn't Gabriel's voice.
"Your place," she said, stepping inside. "I just crash here on weekends. Or when Victor's being insufferable. Which is always."
I walked in.
"Victor?"
She blinked at me. Then her face softened. "Right. Amnesia." She stepped closer, like she was letting me in on a secret. "Victor. Our older brother. The heir. The favorite. Also a massive pain in my ass."
She said it like a compliment. I was pretty sure it wasn't.
My eyes moved from her to the living room. It was all glass and city skyline. The kind of view people pay millions for. I now had it from my couch.
"You hungry?" Vi was already heading toward the kitchen. Or what I assumed was the kitchen. This place was big enough to get lost in.
"Not really."
She opened the fridge anyway. Pulled out two bottles of water. Tossed one to me.
I caught it. Barely.
"Reflexes are still there," she said. "Good."
I looked around. The furniture was dark. Modern. Expensive. Nothing personal. No photos. No clutter. Like someone lived here but hadn't decided who they were yet.
"You're the only one who visits?" I asked.
Vi shrugged. "Victor's too busy being Victor. Dad sends his assistant if he needs something. Your friends..." She paused. "They're not really the visiting type."
She said it like that explained everything.
Maybe it did.
Before I could ask more, she pulled out a microwave container, and pressed a few buttons. The machine hummed to life.
"I've got a study group in an hour," she said, leaning against the counter. "But if anything feels off — anything at all — you call me. Immediately."
She pointed at the phone on the counter. "My number's saved."
I picked it up. Scrolled through. Nothing looked familiar.
"Under what name?"
She didn't answer. Just pulled out her own phone, tapped the screen.
Mine buzzed.
I looked down.
Menace 💜
I looked up at her.
She shrugged. "Don't look at me. You saved it that way yourself."
I stared at the name. Then at her. Then back at the phone.
"Should I ask?"
"Probably not."
The microwave beeped. She pulled out whatever was inside, took a bite, and headed for the door.
"Call me. Seriously."
Then she was gone. Just like that.
I stood there for a moment. Just stood there. In a penthouse I didn't remember. With a view I'd only seen in movies. A phone in my hand that had my sister saved as Menace with a heart emoji.
Gabriel would have laughed.
I wasn't sure what to do yet.