Alexander, eyes squeezed shut, felt a tremor run through his body. The metallic tang of blood filled his nostrils, a phantom sensation. He opened his eyes slowly, the sterile white of the room blurring at the edges. The sounds of whirring machinery and hissing fluids were muffled, distant, yet somehow intimately close. His hands trembled, slick with a cold sweat. Names echoed in his mind – Alex? Monica? Mefiel? They were whispers, half-remembered fragments of a shattered puzzle. Who was he? What was real?

The room dissolved into a kaleidoscope of shifting images. He was in a sprawling techno-city, neon lights painting the rain-slicked streets in vibrant hues. Two figures, looming and reptilian, pursued him through labyrinthine alleys. He saw Monica, her face a fleeting blur of beauty and fear. Then, a different face – Mefiel – equally elusive and enigmatic. These were not just faces; they were fragments of emotions, sensations, half-formed memories. He was running, always running, yet never escaping.

The dream shifted again. He was in a stark white cell, the cold metal biting into his skin. A gruff voice cut through the chaos: "Hey, wake up, you donkey."

He opened his eyes to a harsh fluorescent light. A man, Alex, stood over him, his face a mask of weary cynicism. "Prisoner of the state of Texas," Alex stated flatly. "Good dream for a fucking idiot."

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

The fragmented memories of the dream began to coalesce. Techno-city, double-dragon figures, Monica... "Texas? Techno-city? Double dragons...?" Rodrigo – he knew, somehow, that was his name in this reality – stammered.

Alex chuckled, a harsh, brittle sound. "All an experiment, my little project. The government put you in, but I suspected you knew something. Clearly, you didn't. Maybe those fake rape accusations were a red herring..."

"What's my name?" Rodrigo whispered, his voice raw.

"Something about Toshiro Nagaka, but you changed it later. Rodrigo Fernandez now."

The name felt foreign yet familiar, a ghost of a life he couldn't quite grasp. "Latin America...?" he murmured, the word tasting strange on his tongue.

Alex smirked. "Of course you are, idiota. And those dreams? You heard me call my secretary a slut, and your imagination ran wild. Sometimes, the most brilliant minds are the most pathetic."

"Your secretary? Monica?" Rodrigo asked, the Spanish words slipping out naturally.

Alex nodded. "I like that nickname you invented for her. I'm keeping it. And you won't care soon enough, because your execution is... now!"

Two pistols materialized in Alex's hands. The shots were silent, the death swift and clean. Then, with a flick of his wrist, Alex absorbed Rodrigo's essence, leaving nothing but a faint shimmer in the air.

Monica entered the room, her expression unreadable. "Impressive, sir... Alexander Voss. I like that nickname. I think I'll keep it."

Alexander Voss – the name felt right, a cold, hard truth settling in his bones. "Me too, Monica," he replied, a chilling smile spreading across his lips. "Me too."