A Name.

He once had a Name: given to him by his parents.

A Nickname, bestowed to him by his friends.

.

.

.

A Name.

He once had a Name: gifted to him by his master.

A Title, spread around by his peers.

.

.

.

He blinked. His emerald eyes glinting under the sunlight, and gleaming with the reflection of the boundless sea before him.

He leaned against the rail of the balcony, silently observing the infinite horizon. There was a sense of longing, of loss in the depth of his heart. As if something was missing.

His blond hair fluttered with the evening breeze.

He didn't know what was missing. He didn't feel something was missing.

His head was a mess.

His mind was a mess.

His memory was a mess.

Yet his intellect was in perfect shape.

He perfectly recalled each and every law he ever stumbled upon, when one seemed to slip out of his mind, he merely needed half of a second to recollect it.

The languages that seamlessly rolled off his tongue with flawless grammar and pronunciation were a common occurrence. There was nothing he couldn't understand once he heard it.

His muscle memory didn't seem the least bit affected by his muddled state. Whenever something sounded much too close, much too suspicious, he'd spot it and react accordingly.

There wasn't a time when he didn't look out for emergency exits, windows, bathrooms, potential weapons, suspicious individuals, and cameras when he entered public spaces.

The moment he stepped foot outside of his lodgings, his muscles would grow tenser, his senses would sharpen, and his lips—

His lips would stretch into the most amiable and inoffensive smile he ever had the chance to witness.

It left him speechless, dumbfounded.

He couldn't explain his quirks, his extensive knowledge, or his ways of speech.

Always friendly and courteous, yet never overstepping his boundaries.

Easily probing and gaining information from others without ever divulging anything about himself.

How the lies so effortlessly rolled off his tongue.

Like well-written music.

He heard the sound of waves crashing against the shore, making him flick his gaze away from the seemingly limitless sea in front of him.

There was a sense of unrest in his heart.

He didn't know its source. He both wanted to find it and leave it buried in the depth of his mind.

His long, slender fingers traced regular circles on the wooden rail in front of him. The size never varied from one circle to another, keeping the same diameter and regularity without him even lending his care and attention.

He clenched his jaw, closing his hands into a fist before relaxing his hold. He carefully rolled his shoulders, spared the view one last probing glance, as if it would lend him the answer to his confusion, before turning away and entering the seaside villa.

Villa.

He walked to the bookshelf, randomly picking up one of the books there. He already knew them all by heart, it didn't matter which one he took, and walked to the dark blue sofa.

In this so-called villa, he was alone.

He crossed his legs, allowing his right foot to rise in his line of sight, and letting his green-colored eyes settle on his ankle. His gaze merely brushed against the ankle bracelet that tightly hung to his skin. He flipped the book open, and with the sound of the waves lulling him to peace, read.

Instead of a seaside villa, calling this place a luxurious prison would be more accurate.

His eyes dropped, leaving his blond lashes to cast a shadow over them as he patiently went over a text he could easily recite by heart, punctuations, lines, and pages, he knew them all already.

A prison.

Sometimes he wondered why his mind was so steadfast, so accurate.

It both scared and comforted him.

He felt threatened by his ability, if he was in this place, there was a reason. It didn't matter if he didn't know it, he didn't need someone to tell him about it for him to guess how potentially dangerous he was supposed to be.

He found solace in his ability. There was this feeling, like someone watching over him. Such skills, the people born with them were nonexistent, he should have polished them through the years. Someone helped him turn his mind into the thing it was today.

Minutes passed, accompanied by the lulling of the waves and ticking of the clock that hung to the wall in front of him.

In this place, he had no access to technology. Apart from household appliances and the ankle bracelet on his right ankle, there was nothing. His only day-to-day distraction were books, the sea, and perhaps the knives.

...

His familiarity with the blade and human anatomy was something he found pleasure in.

It made him feel closer to the truth, and while he was in no hurry to find it, it remained undeniably comforting.

In this house, apart from the periodical visitors and the raven-haired man, there was no outside contact. The closest thing he had to outside contact was a photo album, one that rested on his nightstand.

In it were countless faces that evoked a vague sense of déjà vu.

When he stared at them, he could remember their name, hobbies, occupations, sizes— although the information was most probably outdated, it remained unnerving.

Albeit the slight familiarity, he couldn't feel any link to these teens. As if despite being important, they were merely relegated to bystanders and unimportant background characters by his psyche.

If he already knew so much about needless people, then what would it be regarding those he esteemed?

He never spent much time staring at those faces. Most of the time, he dismissed them with a glance.

His favorite photo wasn't one, it was a hand-drawn picture of a man with hair as dark as the starless night, and eyes as profound as the ocean in front of his house.

He felt an inexplicable connection between them.

One look at that smile was enough to tell him all.

He closed his emerald eyes, pausing in his reading before marking the page and closing the book. Standing up, he brought the book back to the bookshelf, neatly ranging it in alphabetical order before glancing at the time.

It was still early.

He went to close the door to the balcony, shutting out the sound of waves against the shore, and readjusted the hem of his cuffs. When he looked up, he met his reflection.

Green eyes, a beautifully lush color.

Blond hair, as smooth as silk.

A slightly round face and roundish eyes to add. Their edge was a bit droopy and his smile reeked of peacefulness. He seemed so inoffensive.

inoffensive

He felt like the word didn't fit him.

Yet there was no better word to describe him.

And for the love of God, he wouldn't discard it.

It was the identity his Master so carefully crafted for him. The one he personally designed to fit his needs—

His green eyes shone with a strange light, but before the cameras displayed throughout the villa caught it, it was gone. He licked his upper lip and made his way to the kitchen.

He didn't check to see if his smile faltered if it looked unnatural. He knew it would never betray him.

He opened the fridge, taking out the food people delivered at the beginning of the week, and began to cook. Eyes on the food, he wondered.

Should he break out?

For some reason, he had this urge to go out, buy flowers and visit this place he always saw in the photo album.

Today was the twentieth of March.

He wasn't sure.

He felt like something important happened that day.

Once.

When he had a Name.