Page 155 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

A small voice emerged from behind him. “I’ve also never played before.”

Liam’s head whipped toward Rohan so fast I heard a faint crack. “What?”

Rohan blinked, startled by the intensity. “I said I’ve never—”

“What do you mean you’ve never played before?” Liam’s voice had gone up an octave. “Look at you! Look at your—” He gestured vaguely at Rohan’s entire frame. “—your shoulders!”

Rohan glanced down at his shoulders, as if he’d never noticed them before. “What do my shoulders have to do with—”

“So I have two amateurs on my team?” Liam’s gaze dropped to the floor, his voice hollow with dawning defeat. “Two.”

Felicity frowned, crossing her arms. “You just said you were fine with me not knowing how to play.”

“That was when I thought Rohan could play!” Liam threw his hands up. “I had a whole strategy! Now what are we supposed to do?”

I shrugged, already walking toward the locker rooms to gear up. “Lose.”

I didn’t look back to see Liam’s face, but I could feel his despair radiating across the lobby.

It was going to be a very good day.

The outdoor arena was a sprawling maze of wooden barriers, overturned vehicles, and clusters of scrubby bushes. The rules were simple: the last team standing wins. Loser buys lunch.

Our team found cover behind a weathered wooden barricade near a cluster of rusted oil drums. The paintball gun felt familiar in my hands, its solid weight a welcome sense of control after weeks of emotional chaos.

“So,” Cassian whispered, crouched beside me, his voice low and serious, “what’s our strategy?”

Naija and I exchanged a look.

“Shoot people,” we said in unison.

Cassian blinked. A beat of silence. Then he nodded, accepting the wisdom. “Got it.”

We moved out, creeping through the underbrush, using the scattered structures for cover. Distant pops echoed through the trees.

Felicity might not be a shooter, but that woman could hide. She’d probably found a hollow log somewhere and was napping.

Liam and Rohan were wild cards. I’d never played with either of them. For all I knew, Liam was a paintball prodigy and Rohan’s “those shoulders” would finally prove useful.

We knelt behind a tall wooden barrier, the kind with slats that let you peer through without exposing yourself. Naija caught my eye and gave the signal—the tiny head tilt that meant I’m going out.

She slipped away, silent as smoke.

I scanned the arena, peering through the slats. I strained to hear anything over the distant pop of other games.

A crinkle.

I froze.

Another crinkle. Then the soft sound of something being unwrapped.

I turned.

Cassian was sitting cross-legged beside me. He had produced a paper bag from somewhere inside his vest and was unwrapping a sandwich—a real sandwich, with visible layers of meat and cheese.

He took a bite.

I stared at him. The paintball gun hung forgotten in my grip. “What… what are you doing?”