Chapter 5 - THE HEADLINE FROM THE PAST
The peaceful quiet of the following morning was shattered at ten o'clock.
Hannah had walked down to the small country general store two miles away to trade fresh eggs for flour and sugar. When she returned, she didn't walk—she was running at full speed up the gravel driveway, her face deathly pale, her chest heaving as she clutched a folded, yellowed copy of the county's weekly newspaper against her ribs.
Owen was near the barn, oiling a hand saw, when he heard her frantic footsteps. He instantly dropped the tool and walked out to meet her.
"Hannah? What's wrong?!" Owen asked, his sharp eyes scanning the trees behind her for threats.
Hannah stopped in front of him, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She looked at him with a mixture of profound shock, awe, and a sudden, terrifying realization of who was standing in her yard.
"Owen..." Hannah stammered, her hands trembling violently.
"What is it?" Owen asked, his voice dropping into a firm, grounding register.
Without a word, Hannah unfolded the newspaper with shaking fingers and held it up before his face.
The front page was dominated by a large, high-resolution photograph. The photograph showed Owen—dressed in a sharp, expensive dark suit, his hair neatly styled, his expression cold, dominant, and absolute. He was standing on the steps of a major federal courthouse, surrounded by men in dark suits.
Above the photograph, printed in heavy black ink, was a massive headline.
Owen’s eyes locked onto the image of his own face.
The world around him seemed to slow to a complete standstill. The sound of the wind, the rustle of the oak leaves, the anxious breathing of the children—everything faded into a deafening, ringing silence.
As he stared at the printed photograph, a sudden, violent surge of images flashed through his mind like lightning strikes:
The screech of heavy tires on wet asphalt... the flash of automatic weapons... a dark luxury sedan spinning out of control... cold eyes watching him through a rain-slicked window... a voice echoing in his ear: "They're coming for you, boss..."
Owen’s face went completely still—a mask of stone, devoid of all emotion, as the terrifying weight of recognition began to tear through the amnesia in his brain.
Hannah looked up at his frozen face, her voice trembling.
"They thought you were dead," Hannah whispered softly, her eyes searching his face. "The paper says you disappeared during an ambush two weeks ago..."
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Owen kept staring at his own dark eyes in the photograph, his hand tightening around the edge of the newsprint until it tore.
"I remember..." Owen whispered, his voice so cold and dark it chilled the air around them. "I remember who I am."
