She slid a passport across the bar. The photo was his. The name: Marco Vega.
Guillermo laughed, a hollow, rattling sound. He had spent twenty years cultivating amnesia. He had wiped servers, burned safe houses, and left three wives without a forwarding address. His whole life was a fortress built of forgetting. “I don’t have memories,” he said. “I have alibis.”
The first bite tasted of burnt honey and black pepper. Immediately, he gasped. A weight vanished from his sternum. He blinked. “What… what did I forget?”