Chapter 2
Chapter Two
The Missing Day
I woke up at 8:13 a.m.
The first thing I noticed was the silence.
My phone was lying beside my pillow, vibrating every few seconds.
I reached for it without opening my eyes.
Twenty-three missed calls.
I sat up.
For a few seconds, I simply stared at the screen.
I didn't recognize any of the numbers.
Then I saw the date.
June 17.
I frowned.
Something was wrong.
I opened the calendar.
June 15.
June 16.
June 17.
The date was there.
I just couldn't remember it.
I closed the calendar and opened it again.
The same three dates.
My mind felt strangely calm.
Too calm.
I knew where I was.
I knew who I was.
I knew what I had done on June 15.
But June 16 was different.
There was nothing.
No morning.
No afternoon.
No evening.
Not even a single image.
It wasn't like forgetting someone's name.
It was like the entire day had never belonged to me.
I looked at my phone again.
Twenty-three missed calls.
Most of them were from unknown numbers.
I opened my messages.
There were forty-six unread messages.
The first few were ordinary.
Where are you?
Please call me.
I need to talk to you.
Then I saw one that made me stop.
«Don't go anywhere.»
Another message had arrived twenty minutes later.
«I know you don't remember.»
I stared at it.
My fingers went cold.
I read it again.
I know you don't remember.
Who knew?
And remember what?
I checked the sender.
Unknown number.
I called.
The line rang once.
Then disconnected.
I called again.
This time, the number was switched off.
I put the phone down.
My room suddenly felt unfamiliar.
---
I went to the bathroom.
There was a small cut above my eyebrow.
I touched it.
Pain.
Real pain.
I pulled my sleeve up.
A dark purple bruise covered the inside of my forearm.
There was another one near my shoulder.
I stared at myself in the mirror.
“What happened?”
My reflection didn't answer.
Of course it didn't.
I had known there would be consequences when I signed the contract.
I knew I would lose twenty-four hours.
I knew there would be a blank space in my memory.
But I hadn't expected this.
Injuries weren't part of the deal.
At least, I didn't remember them being part of it.
I went back into my room and opened the Life Rental app.
The transaction was still there.
STATUS: COMPLETED
RENTAL PERIOD: JUNE 16, 00:00–23:59
MEMORY TRANSFER: SUCCESSFUL
INCIDENT REPORTS: NONE
I stared at the last line.
Incident reports: None.
I laughed once.
It sounded strange in the quiet room.
There was blood on my sleeve.
A cut on my forehead.
A bruise on my arm.
And apparently—
nothing had happened.
I opened the customer support section.
Before I could type anything, a notification appeared.
«Your transaction has been successfully completed. Thank you for using Life Rental.»
I deleted it.
Then I noticed something on the floor.
My bag.
I picked it up.
The zipper was half open.
I searched through it.
Wallet.
Charger.
Keys.
Notebook.
Nothing unusual.
Then my fingers touched something metallic.
I pulled it out.
A small silver key.
I stared at it.
It was old-fashioned.
Heavy.
There was a number engraved on the metal.
417
I turned it over.
Nothing on the other side.
I didn't recognize it.
I checked my apartment keys.
None of them looked like this.
I placed the silver key on my desk.
For a moment, I simply watched it.
Then something caught my attention.
A yellow sticky note was attached to the bottom of my desk.
I peeled it off.
The handwriting was mine.
I recognized it immediately.
Three words were written across the paper.
«Don't trust yourself.»
I stopped breathing.
I turned the paper over.
Nothing.
I looked around my room.
Why would I write that?
And when?
I couldn't remember.
I threw the note into the drawer.
Then immediately opened the drawer again.
I took it back out.
I didn't know why.
Something inside me was telling me not to get rid of it.
Something else was telling me that I shouldn't trust that feeling either.
---
At 9:02 a.m., I called Life Rental.
A customer service representative answered after three rings.
“Good morning. How may I assist you?”
“I rented my day yesterday.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“I think something went wrong.”
There was a short pause.
“Could you explain the issue?”
“I don't remember anything.”
“That's normal.”
“I know.”
I looked at the bruise on my arm.
“But I have injuries.”
Another pause.
“Were the injuries caused during the rental period?”
“I don't know.”
“Then unfortunately, we cannot determine that.”
I closed my eyes.
“Can you tell me what happened yesterday?”
“I'm sorry, but the details of your rented period are confidential.”
“It's my life.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Then why can't you tell me?”
“Because you voluntarily transferred the rights to that period.”
I gripped the phone tighter.
“I want the buyer's information.”
“That information is protected.”
“Can you at least tell me whether the buyer reported an incident?”
“We cannot disclose buyer activity.”
“What if I was hurt?”
“Your medical safety is your responsibility.”
“So if someone used my body yesterday and hurt me, you won't tell me?”
“Ma'am, the renter is contractually restricted from causing intentional physical harm.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
Silence.
I could hear faint typing on the other end.
Then the representative spoke.
“Your transaction was completed successfully.”
“No incident?”
“No incident was reported.”
I looked at the silver key on my desk.
“Who bought my day?”
The typing stopped.
The silence lasted several seconds.
Then the representative said,
“I'm sorry. That information is unavailable.”
The call ended.
I stared at the phone.
They hadn't answered my question.
Not really.
They had simply found a way around it.
---
At 9:37 a.m., another message arrived.
Same unknown number.
«You need to leave your apartment.»
I stared at it.
Then another message.
«Take the key.»
My eyes moved to the desk.
417.
A third message appeared.
«Don't contact Life Rental again.»
I typed:
Who are you?
The message showed as delivered.
No reply.
I waited.
One minute.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Nothing.
I typed again.
What happened yesterday?
This time, the reply came almost immediately.
«You weren't supposed to remember.»
I swallowed.
Remember what?
The typing indicator appeared.
Then disappeared.
Appeared again.
Finally, a message arrived.
«Watch the video.»
A file appeared beneath it.
VID_0616_2318.mp4
I didn't remember recording it.
My thumb hovered over the file.
I almost didn't open it.
Then I did.
---
At first, there was only darkness.
Then the camera moved.
A street.
Rain.
Headlights.
The image shook violently.
Someone was breathing behind the camera.
Heavy.
Fast.
Then I heard my own voice.
“Stop recording.”
My blood froze.
I turned the volume up.
The camera moved again.
I appeared on screen.
Me.
Wearing the same black jacket I had worn on June 15.
My hair was wet.
There was blood near my eyebrow.
The same cut I had now.
I was standing beside someone.
A girl.
She had her back toward the camera.
I couldn't see her face.
My voice came again.
“Why are you doing this?”
The girl didn't answer.
I moved closer.
“Tell me what happened.”
Nothing.
Rain hit the camera lens.
The girl finally turned.
Her face was visible for half a second.
Then the image distorted.
I paused the video.
My heart was beating too fast.
I played it again.
The same distortion.
Her face was there.
But every time the camera focused on it, the image broke apart.
I continued watching.
My voice sounded different now.
Angry.
Afraid.
“If they find out, they'll erase everything.”
The girl looked directly toward the camera.
Then she said,
“Not everything.”
She took one step forward.
“Just you.”
The video ended.
I sat completely still.
The room was silent again.
I replayed the final five seconds.
Again.
Again.
Then I noticed something.
In the last frame, the girl was holding something.
A silver key.
417.
The same key sitting on my desk.
My stomach tightened.
I looked at the video information.
Recorded: June 16, 23:18
That meant the video had been recorded less than an hour before my rental period ended.
I watched the final frame again.
There was something else.
Behind the girl was a door.
A metal door.
Above it was a small black sign.
Four white numbers.
417
I stood up.
The silver key was still on my desk.
I picked it up.
For the first time that morning, I knew exactly what I was going to do.
I didn't know where Room 417 was.
I didn't know who the girl was.
I didn't know what had happened on June 16.
But someone had left me a trail.
And whatever was waiting at the end of it—
someone had been afraid enough to make sure I would find it.
I looked at the unknown number again.
One final message appeared.
«If you go to Room 417, don't open the door unless you remember my voice.»
I stared at the sentence.
My pulse slowed.
Because there was one problem.
I had never heard her voice before.
At least—
I didn't remember that I had.
