Jim’s eyes fluttered open, his mind sluggish as he slowly emerged from the heavy fog of sleep. He blinked, trying to focus, his gaze settling on the ceiling above him. A sense of disorientation gripped him immediately. The ceiling was unfamiliar—too pristine, too white. Where was he? The tension in his chest grew as he shifted under the covers, his hand instinctively reaching out to rub his forehead.

With a groan, Jim swung his legs off the bed and sat up, planting his bare feet into something soft—too soft. His toes burrowed into the plush fibers of a thick brown shag carpet, a sensation so foreign that it snapped him into full consciousness. Confusion tightened its grip as his mind began to race. This wasn’t his office, and it sure as hell wasn’t his couch, the place where he had fallen asleep the night before. He had been in his office after the meeting with General Benson, planning to grab a few hours of sleep before continuing with the investigation.

His thoughts churned. The investigation. Venus. The disappearances. Something about yesterday felt distant, like it had happened a lifetime ago. He massaged his temples, trying to soothe away the creeping pressure behind his eyes. That damn headache from yesterday had been brutal, but it seemed to have disappeared entirely. Oddly, so had the familiar ache in his chest that usually greeted him in the mornings, the product of years of heavy smoking. But today, there was nothing—no urge to cough, no tightness. His lungs felt... clean.

That was wrong. The desire to reach for his cigarettes, to feel the nicotine hit his system, wasn’t there. He frowned, feeling off-kilter. Jim rubbed his chest, puzzled. The automatic craving that drove him to smoke first thing in the morning had vanished, and for the first time in years, his body didn’t seem to care.

“What the hell...” he muttered, glancing down at the luxurious carpet beneath his feet, a stark contrast to the utilitarian tile of his office. His eyes swept the room. Four meters by four. A large wooden bed, a bedside table to his left, and across the room, a wardrobe and vanity. The furniture was simple but elegant, all made from the same dark wood. This was a bedroom. But whose?

His heart rate picked up as the realization hit him like a splash of cold water. He didn’t know where he was. This wasn’t his place. His office had no bed, no shaggy rug—he’d never choose something so extravagant. Jim’s military instincts flared. He had been taken. Kidnapped. The memories of the previous day flooded back—he had been at HQ, investigating Venus’s disappearance, readying to brief General Benson. His findings had been explosive, connecting strange phenomena with the missing planet. Someone had clearly wanted to stop him.

They must have drugged me, he thought, mentally assessing his physical state. But oddly enough, he felt great—better than he had in years. He looked down at his legs, noticing the faint definition of his muscles beneath his skin. They felt stronger, healthier. Something wasn’t right.

His eyes darted around the room, scanning for anything that could clue him in on what had happened. There was a phone plugged into the charger on the bedside table, but it was locked. "Emergency calls only," the screen taunted. The thought crossed his mind to dial 911, but he hesitated. His kidnapper had left the phone within reach—why? Either they weren’t concerned, or... this was a trap. Better not risk it yet.

Jim's eyes caught something on the wall across from him—a framed photo. His stomach twisted as he stood and crossed the room to inspect it. The image was of him and Rachel, his ex-wife, standing arm-in-arm, smiling like they were still together. They looked happy. But that was impossible. They hadn’t been like that in years—not since everything had gone to hell between them.

He swallowed hard, nausea creeping up his throat as he looked at the picture. It was dated only last year, but it had been at least six years since he last saw Racheal. The thought disgusted him. He had left her after the affair with Michael—his best friend. Jim had never forgiven Kelly for throwing his life into chaos with her betrayal. He had never forgiven Michael either. Now here was a photo mocking him.

His eyes narrowed, and a deep unease settled into his bones. What the hell was this? Some kind of sick mind game? Whoever had taken him knew exactly how to get under his skin. The image of Rachel and Michael burned in his mind, stoking the embers of his anger. Jim clenched his fists, his military training overriding his panic. He had to get out of here. No telling how deep this went or who was behind it. But he wasn’t going to wait around to find out.

Jim rummaged through the wardrobe, pulling out a pair of pants, shoes, and a jacket that were suspiciously in his size. His mind ticked through the possibilities as he dressed—government abduction, some deep-state cover-up, maybe even something worse. The investigation had uncovered strange, unexplainable occurrences—could this be related?

Just as he zipped up the jacket, he heard the faint jingle of keys at the back of the house. Jim’s body tensed, his mind snapping into tactical mode. Whoever had taken him was back. He quickly scanned the room, his eyes landing on a set of golf clubs leaning against the corner. He grabbed an iron, crept down stairs and took position against the wall, just beside the door to what he assumed was the kitchen. His heart thudded in his chest, adrenaline surging through his veins.

He tightened his grip on the club. This bastard's going to get the surprise of his life, Jim thought, his knuckles white against the handle. Every sense was on high alert, his breath shallow as he listened. The back door creaked open, and the sound of footsteps echoed through the house. Jim could hear a man humming—a light, carefree tune that only made Jim’s blood boil.

"Yo! Jim, wake up, you lazy git!" a voice called out from the kitchen. The familiarity of the voice hit Jim like a slap to the face. His body froze, a flood of memories crashing over him. That voice—it was Michael. The man who had ruined everything. The man he once called his best friend.

Jim’s jaw clenched as he wrung the grip on the golf club, as if choking the life from a man, Micheal. He couldn’t let his emotions take over. Michael was in on this—he had to be. That photo, this house, the whole setup—it was all part of some twisted game.

“Come on, Jim! Get your arse out of bed already. I’ve put the coffee on.” Michael’s voice carried through the hallway, casual and completely unaware of the danger he was walking into.

The rage simmering inside Jim finally boiled over. He kicked open the door and stepped into the kitchen, his eyes blazing with fury. There, standing by the coffee maker with a grin plastered across his face, was Michael.

“Michael, you bastard,” Jim hissed through clenched teeth, raising the club high above his head.

Michael’s grin faltered, his eyes widening in confusion. “What the—?” was all he could manage before Jim swung the club down with all his might. The head of the club connected with Michael’s jaw with a sickening crack, sending him crashing to the floor. Michael’s eyes rolled back as he slumped, unconscious, a trickle of blood running from his mouth.

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Jim stood over him, chest heaving, the club still raised. The sight of Michael knocked out cold gave him no satisfaction. This wasn’t over yet.

As Jim’s gaze drifted across the kitchen, his eyes landed on another photo. This time, it wasn’t just him and Rachel—it was him, Michael, and Rachel together, laughing. They looked like one big happy family. The sight made Jim’s stomach turn. He ripped the photo from the wall, tossing it aside in disgust.

After taking a deep breath, Jim grabbed a chair and dragged Michael’s limp form onto it. He wasn’t done with him yet. Grabbing the microwave cord, Jim yanked it from the wall and used it to tie Michael’s arms behind the chair, ensuring he wouldn’t be going anywhere when he woke up.

Jim sat back, pouring himself a cup of coffee as he stared at Michael’s unconscious body. There was no doubt in his mind—Michael was part of something bigger, and Jim was going to get answers.

He’d get them one way or another.

“Captain. Captain, wake up!” Jim growled as he grabbed a fistful of Michael’s hair, yanking his head off the table. The unconscious man barely stirred, his head lolling to the side. With a frustrated sneer, Jim tossed a glass of water in his face, watching as the icy liquid snapped Michael out of his stupor. Michael groaned, the bruising on his jaw already darkening where the golf club had struck him. His split lip throbbed as he tried to move his tongue, tasting blood.

“What the hell, man?” Michael rasped, wincing as he tried to sit upright, his eyes barely open, still foggy from the sudden attack.

“It’s me who should be asking that, Captain,” Jim snarled, the venom in his voice unmistakable. “Why the hell am I here? What’s the point of all this?” His eyes never left Michael, watching for the slightest tell, the smallest slip.

Michael tugged against the cords tying his wrists behind his back, testing the restraints. His wrists ached, the wire digging deeper with each movement. “Jim, what the hell are you talking about?” His voice was thick with confusion, but Jim heard it as deflection. “You hit me... with a fucking golf club? Untie me, man!” Michael squirmed in his chair, panic beginning to seep into his tone.

Jim’s eyes narrowed. Michael was still playing this game, pretending ignorance. Jim stepped closer, towering over his former friend, his hands balling into fists. "Lucky you’ve got such a weak jaw, or I’d have no problem putting you through more than just a golf club," he muttered, enjoying the discomfort spreading across Michael’s face.

“What are you talking about? Untie me!” Michael shouted, trying to free himself, but the cords only bit deeper into his skin. His frustration grew, and Jim could see the mounting panic in his eyes. Good. Let him squirm.

Jim leaned in, gripping Michael's jaw tightly between his thumb and forefinger. Michael gasped as Jim tilted his head upwards, forcing him to lock eyes. "I’d love nothing more than to squeeze the truth out of you, Captain," Jim spat, his face inches from Michael’s. “But I don’t have all day. Drop the act. Why did you bring me here?”

Michael’s breath came out in ragged gasps, the pressure on his jaw causing sharp bursts of pain. He needed to think fast. Clearly, Jim wasn’t just angry—he was delusional, talking in some fantasy of rank and betrayal. “Jim,” Michael rasped, his voice shaking, “I’ll tell you whatever you want. But I didn’t bring you here, man. This is your house. We’re friends. You gave me a key, remember?”

Jim scoffed, his fingers tightening. “My house? And we’re friends? Now I know you’re full of shit. We haven’t been friends since the day you stabbed me in the back.” He shoved Michael back, his head bouncing off the table as Jim stood over him, ready to strike again. "You expect me to believe this nonsense?"

“Jim, listen!” Michael cried, his voice full of desperation now. “I can prove it. Look over there!” He nodded toward a photo on the wall. “Me and you, fishing at the lakes last year. You see that?”

Jim’s eyes flicked to the picture frame hanging by the door. It showed him and Michael, arms around each other, grinning like idiots. But it didn’t make sense. They hadn’t gone fishing together for years, not since Michael’s affair with Rachel. The photo had to be a fake—another trick. “Could’ve been faked,” Jim muttered, taking a menacing step forward.

Michael’s pulse quickened. His mind raced, trying to find something that would break through Jim’s paranoia. “Wait, Jim! Check the drawer over there. Your bills. They’ve got your name on them. This is your house!”

Jim shot him a dark look. “Forged,” he said dismissively. “You think I don’t know how this works?” He placed a hand on Michael’s shoulder, pushing him back harder against the chair.

Michael’s mind scrambled for anything that might get through to him. “Your phone! Check your phone! There’ll be messages—messages from me. You’ve sent them yourself! You’ll see. We’re friends, Jim. Just look.”

Jim hesitated for a moment, feeling the weight of the phone in his pocket. He pulled it out, staring at the lock screen. “Conveniently locked, isn’t it?” he sneered, waving it in front of Michael.

“1701! The code is 1701,” Michael blurted, his voice rising in desperation. “You loved watching Star Trek with your granddad when you were a kid. The code’s always been 1701.”

Jim froze, his finger hovering over the screen. The number... How could he know that? His jaw tightened as he punched in the code. The phone unlocked immediately.

He quickly flipped through the messages. Hundreds of texts from Michael. Photos, videos, and messages of them hanging out—fishing, barbecues, laughing together. His own name appeared in conversation after conversation. Jim's stomach twisted as he scrolled through the pictures: him and Michael, smiling like old friends. More images and videos popped up on social media—Facebook feeds, Instagram posts—each one showing a life Jim had no memory of.

“This doesn’t make sense...” Jim muttered, thumbing through the phone, his grip tightening. These videos—these posts—he hadn’t lived them. How could they exist? His heart raced as he searched for some mention of Venus, the planet that had dominated the headlines for days.

But there was nothing. No mention of a missing planet. No mention of Venus at all.

Jim's mind whirled. He searched the news again, then another website, another. Nothing. As if Venus had never existed. In fact, all he found were references to seven planets in the solar system.

“What the hell...” Jim whispered, his hand trembling as he scrolled through the screen. Everything he had known—everything about Venus, his investigation—was gone. It was like the planet had been erased, scrubbed clean from reality itself.

Michael, seeing Jim’s shock, tried again. “Jim, this is real. I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but this—this life is real. We’re friends. This is your house. You’ve been living here for years. Whatever you think is happening—it isn’t.”

Jim lowered the phone, his world spinning. He didn't know what to believe anymore. How could this be his life? How could Venus—the investigation, the entire planet—just... disappear? His mind grasped for answers, but nothing made sense. He looked around the room again, taking in the pictures, the bills on the counter, the familiar surroundings that felt utterly alien.

But all he could feel was the creeping sense that somehow, everything around him had changed. The world he knew had shifted, and he was the only one who remembered what it had been.

“I need... I need to think,” Jim said quietly, backing away from Michael, the phone still in his hand. His mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of his shattered reality.

Michael, still tied to the chair, watched him closely. “Jim... whatever it is, we can figure it out. But you have to untie me, man. I’m not your enemy.”

But Jim barely heard him. He turned toward the window, staring out at an unfamiliar.. His breathing quickened. Something was terribly wrong.

And it wasn’t just Venus.

It was everything.