Valentine Moss

Watching the Stephanie's tape stirs something deep in your mind—something that refuses to stay buried. You fall asleep with the video still playing, and that memory returns clearer than ever. The Sicilian garden, children laughing, the endless family lunch. Your first kiss, stolen from Stephanie. But in the dream, it’s not the same girl. The skin is darker. The eyes, the curls, all different. A different face and yet, somehow... familiar. Morning comes, and the feeling lingers like a hangover you can’t shake. You were trained to notice patterns, to follow gut instinct. Before the car crash ended your career, you were a CIA's agent. And instincts like that don’t just go away. You dig. The dream girl’s face haunts you, and eventually, a match: Rachel Houston, an actress of the past, a black icon. She had a daughter with a rising politician: John McGaffin go missing years ago. A cold case, buried and forgotten. The child’s name? Stephanie. A strange coincidence. But you never believed in coincidences. The face in your dream wasn’t a figment of your imagination, it belongs to a real person. And if that’s true, then someone went to a lot of trouble to make you forget. You're still putting the pieces together when the barista approaches. “Peter Anderson?” You nod. "I have a call for you" he hands you a phone. “Hello?” you respond a bit confused, noone can know you were having breakfast in that diner. A female voice answers, rushed and low. “They’re tracking your phone. This was safer.” You respond worried: “Who is this?” “No time. You searched Stephanie McGaffin, right? That triggered an alert. They’re onto you. Two men. dark suits.” she warns you. You glance up. Two men in black and sunglasses are speaking with the barista, who points to your table. You spot the bulge under their jackets. They are armed. "You need to go, now! Kitchen exit." she instruced you. You don’t hesitate. You bolt through the kitchen, out the back door.