Who Am I?

Harry's eyes blinked open to the faint glow of firelight dancing along rough, gray stone walls. The smell of wood and faint herbs lingered in the air, mixed with something metallic—like old iron.

It took him a moment to register his surroundings: a medieval-style room with heavy wooden beams overhead, a simple bed beneath him, and a sturdy wooden door across the way.

"Woah-ar-!"

He groaned softly, sitting up, his hand automatically rubbing the back of his head. His body ached, a dull throb in his chest and limbs, but there was no sharp pain—no sign of the injury he was sure should've left him on death's door.

"What the…" he muttered under his breath, flexing his arms. Perfectly fine. Not a single scratch, just residual soreness. "Did I… dream that?"

"ZZZZ-!"

A loud snore broke the quiet, making Harry flinch. His head whipped to the side, where another bed lay pressed against the wall.

On it sprawled a figure, one arm behind his head, the other hanging loosely off the side. His face was lit faintly by the firelight, his expression serene, almost peaceful.

"Hmmm?"

Harry's breath caught.

"M-Max?" he whispered, his voice hoarse. 

There was no mistaking it. The figure was Max, but something about him seemed different. His face was sharper somehow, his posture unnervingly still despite his snoring.

Harry's brow furrowed as he stared.

'He looks like he's in a freaking movie poster,' Harry thought, half-annoyed. 

Harry shifted, swinging his legs off the bed and planting his feet on the cool stone floor. He tested his limbs, bending, twisting—nothing was wrong.

"Okay, should I be happy that I am not dead?" he muttered. 

His thoughts snapped back to Max. Standing, Harry crossed the short distance between their beds, his footsteps echoing faintly. He leaned down, poking Max's arm with a finger. "Hey, Max. Wake up."

No response.

Harry huffed, reaching out fully this time to shake him. "Come on, man. You can't just—"

"!"

Max's eyes snapped open.

Harry barely had time to react before his wrist was seized in a vice grip. His arm was twisted slightly, not enough to hurt but enough to make his breath hitch. Max's gaze locked onto him, sharp and unyielding like a predator assessing prey.

"Ouch!"

"L-Let go, you idiot!" Harry yelped, yanking his arm back. 

The clarity returned to Max's eyes, and his grip slackened immediately. He released Harry's arm and sat up smoothly, his movements eerily precise, like clockwork.

Harry took a step back, cradling his wrist and glaring. "What the hell, man? Are you an assassin or something?"

Max tilted his head slightly, his expression blank. "What is an assassin?"

Harry blinked, his glare faltering. 'That was… not the response I was expecting.'

He squinted at Max, who sat unnervingly still, his posture rigid, his gaze unwavering.

'He reminds me of a trained dog or something,' Harry thought, keeping the observation to himself.

"Whatever," Harry muttered, sitting back down on his bed. "Where are we? And what happened back then?"

Max's brow furrowed slightly, as though piecing together fragments of memory. "I saved you," he said after a pause, his tone matter-of-fact. "They saved us and told us to sleep here."

Harry stared at him, unimpressed. "Super clear, thanks. Who's 'they'?"

Max shrugged. "I don't know."

"You don't—" Harry groaned, rubbing his temples. "Fine... Wait, did you just say you saved me?"

Max nodded once like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Harry exhaled, his shoulders relaxing. His lips curved into a bright grin as he reached out to pat Max on the shoulder. "Then I owe you one. Thanks for saving me, man. I'd be a goner if it weren't for you."

Max's body stiffened slightly at the contact, but he nodded again, his expression unreadable. There was something strange about the way his gaze lingered on Harry, a flicker of something unnameable in his eyes.

Then, Max spoke, his tone quiet but deliberate. "Who am I?"

Harry froze mid-pat, his grin fading. He stared at Max, his hand still on his shoulder, his mind scrambling to process the question. "What?"

"Who am I?" Max repeated, his tone calm but firm. His face betrayed no emotion, his eyes sharp yet strangely distant.

Harry blinked, narrowing his eyes at Max. "You're… Max? Are you seriously checking if I've got amnesia or something?"

Max tilted his head slightly, his gaze unwavering. "What is this… amnesia?"

Harry's stare turned blank. "...You're joking, right?"

Max shook his head, his expression entirely serious.

Harry groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "No way. You don't even know what amnesia is? Like, seriously?"

Max didn't flinch. Instead, he stared at Harry as though awaiting a lecture. 

Sighing in defeat, Harry straightened up. "Alright, fine, I'll tell you, so stop with the puppy stare."

"Anyway, amnesia is when you lose your memories, like completely blank. You don't remember who you are, where you're from, nothing. It's like your brain just… wipes itself clean. There are also cases where you only lose some part of it, which is more common I think."

"Well, this is all I know."

Max's eyes widened ever so slightly, the weight of Harry's words sinking in. His expression shifted, the faintest flicker of unease breaking through his calm demeanor. He went silent for a long moment, staring at the floor.

Finally, he lifted his head and spoke, his voice quieter but deliberate. "It seems… I am experiencing this amnesia thing."

Harry's jaw dropped.

He stared at Max, his mind scrambling for a response.

"...Seriously?"

"..."

"..."

"..."

"Shoot."