It was warm. Maybe he'd been a little dazed. How long had he been in the shower? No, he was at a bar. He was buying a drink for a gorgeous woman sitting a few seats over, glancing his way every so often. He opened his eyes, pushing away from the cool tiles of the wall and turning off the hot water. Had he drunk enough to forget what happened until he made it back to his hotel room? He reached for his towel, and started to dry his hair. His hands froze in place. He let the towel fall loosely to his shoulders, and ruffled a few wet strands. It was much shorter. When had he done that? No, that wasn't his decision. Someone else had to have done this.

He stepped towards the sink in the foggy bathroom, and wiped the steam from the mirror. That was when he realized this wasn't the bathroom of his hotel room. The sink was supposed to be on the other side of the room. And it didn't look anything like a typical hotel. He studied himself in the mirror, wondering what else might be wrong with him. His hair didn't look like it'd been randomly chopped off by some soon-to-be-dead prankster. It was purposeful and professional. He sighed, getting impatient. The blackout drunk explanation was beginning to seem more and more likely. He looked down at the sink. Two toothbrushes sat side by side. He pulled open the drawers. Just assorted bathroom tools like nail clippers and-wait, pink bows? Hair clips? He pulled open another. Little bottles of brightly colored nail polish clinked and clattered as they rolled around in the drawer. Third drawer. Feminine products. Whose house was he in? Why was he in it? And when had he cut his damned hair?

The mystery couldn't be solved from the bathroom. He finished drying himself off and got dressed. The clothes weren't familiar, but nor were they something he wouldn't normally wear. That led him to believe he'd chosen them. And they fit, so they were probably his. He left the towel behind, raked at his hair with his fingers and stepped into the hall.

The walls were bare, no art or photos. He didn't hear anyone, but still tried his best to remain quiet. Then he remembered that he'd just been using the shower. If anyone was here, they knew he was too. There on the right was a room with several boxes. They were open, so he looked in. Some books about art, history, anatomy, aesthetics, design... He caught sight of an easel laying on the floor beside the stack of boxes. He moved the top box, and opened it. Yarn? Crochet hooks? Amy Tan novels? Nothing in that box held any interest for him, nor did it jolt him into remembering whose home this was.

The kitchen was quiet and empty. It was also littered with boxes. He didn't bother with them after seeing the first contained plates and cutlery. Not his. So he kept searching. He found a bedroom finally. Not his bed. All those pillows and paisley patterns were not something he would put in his home. There was no other furniture in the room, but more boxes. He saw a phone on the floor beside the bed. It was plugged into the nearby outlet. He sat beside it, unlocked it.

He looked through the text messages. There was an ongoing conversation with someone labeled as 'primavera'. The conversation was in English, and fairly mundane. So he looked at the pictures instead. It'd tell him who it belonged to quicker, but naturally, there weren't any. Annoyed, he put the phone down, and headed over to the nearest pile of boxes. The one on top was small, and had only a few things. Keys, some cards, a bottle of pills. He picked up one of the cards and felt the color drain from his face. It was him, but the name didn't say Vega like it should have.

After his mother had died, he'd left Spain, claiming to himself that he was leaving for good. Destination assigned by the random placement of a finger on a spinning globe, he'd spent time in Japan before going back on his word. But he'd only done it because he'd decided he was coming back as someone new, not the stupid and useless boy he'd been before he left. He had become someone capable, talented, impressive and he'd make damn sure well that all of Spain learned that some way or another. He wanted to forget his old self, to erase any notion of weakness, vulnerability, or ineptitude.

So why did this card have his birth name on it instead of the alias he'd created for himself? It would expire in five years, so it was current. He looked at the other items. A debit card, a credit card, both with the would-be forgotten name. There was a slip of paper with an address written on it in his handwriting. He glanced at the bottle of medicine. It had his name on it too. An antipsychotic. He dropped it like it was suddenly on fire and stepped away, running a hand through his hair. A horrible anxiousness was beginning to make his stomach turn. What was going on? Why did everything seem foreign but familiar all at once?

He stepped back over to the phone and opened the contacts. This was his, he knew it was. He held it for a second, unsure what he was planning to do with it. Then he decided, and searched for Bison's number. It wasn't there. Nor Sagat. Nor Balrog. Nor anyone else affiliated with Shadaloo whom he was ever required to keep in contact with. He groaned like he was going to be sick, and scrolled through every name one by one, cursing his habit of assigning nicknames to people. Where was Cammy in this list? Where were all of the numbers associated with his job as a matador? Frustrated, he put the phone down again.

He didn't live here alone. This was evident in all of the feminine things he'd found throughout the place. So where was his room mate? Girlfriend? He wrinkled his nose. Wife? He shook his head at that. No, he didn't keep steady relationships. Too risky, too much of a hassle being concerned with somebody else. All it ever got you in the end was trouble anyway, so what was the point?

The rest of the home was empty. It was small, definitely not a house. Maybe an apartment or something. He-or someone-was in the process of moving in here. Why? And where? He leaned against the counter as he tried to consider the possible answers. Maybe he had helped someone move here. In his very fastidious attempt to conceal his secret identity, he'd rid his phone of any traces of all things Shadaloo related, like the missing phone numbers. He felt a bit of hope, and then it was dashed as quickly as it'd come. The fact of the matter remained that his real name-his birth name-was on the cards in that bedroom and that bottle of pills. None of them were old or expired items. He didn't help people move either, so he knew he had to be really desperate for answers to come up with that explanation.

A quick movement and soft noise made him jump back. A tabby cat had jumped up onto the counter he'd been leaning on. It meowed at him, stepping forward. "I didn't know you were here," he mumbled, mostly to himself to justify why he'd been so startled by a cat. It looked at him expectantly. He didn't really like animals. Cats were better than dogs at least, but he still couldn't understand why someone wanted to deal with cleaning up after and keeping up with another living thing. Especially an animal. The cat drew his attention to the sink as it passed by, carefully avoiding getting its feet wet. There was a mug and a spoon. A very pink mug. It was going to drive him mad trying to figure out whose house he was in, or why. But the mug in the sink reminded him at least, that some morning rituals couldn't go ignored, no matter how unusual the situation.

There wasn't much coffee in the pot on the opposite counter. Just a bit more than enough for one person. He opened a few cabinets, eventually finding a cup. The coffee was still warm. He could feel it through the thin plastic of the cup. He wasn't sure where that mug in the sink had come from or where to find another, but it wasn't that important. He just had to drink it. Maybe it would help him think a little more clearly. He paced around the room, the kitchen more or less sharing one big open space with a living room that was, of course, crowded with boxes. How was there this much stuff to be dealt with? The cat trailed after him as he made laps around the room. "I don't know what you want me to do," he muttered irritably at the thing. He paused by a window, separating the blinds with two fingers and peeking out. A busy street in an urban area. Maybe ten or so floors up. He didn't look much longer, turning away and heading back to the kitchen. He emptied the cup and put it in the sink.

He turned around, facing the quietly humming refrigerator and it all hit him like a ton of bricks. All it took was one picture. One stupid, glossy, four by six piece of colored paper. He stared, and it just wasn't processing properly for a minute. There was him, sort of a half-grin on his face. He was used to making this expression. Smiling when he didn't really feel like it, but humoring someone anyway. Everyone did it. But that wasn't the trouble. It was her. That woman. that thing his arm was wrapped around, pulling close. She smiled brightly, doe-brown eyes looking right at the camera, and it made him want to vomit. He knew all at once who primavera was. His most hated rival, an animosity mutually agreed upon by both parties.

Primavera was spring, and spring was Chun-Li.

Almost as if on cue, he heard the distinct sound of a key grinding away in a lock. He froze. This wasn't right, but what was he supposed to do? Hide? That picture on the fridge he continued to stare at said it didn't make a difference, because apparently kinda liked him. "Ohhh, hi Cammy!" intoned a high, feminine voice. Like she was talking to a child. He turned to face her, stomach dropping at the thought of not only being in an amorous relationship with her, but also the potential of having a child. There she was, but not with any child, her eyes instead directed at the cat that had come to greet her at the door.

Then the cat's name was Cammy? He swallowed hard. How did actual, person-Cammy feel about that, he wondered? Dear God, who was he kidding, how did actual person-Cammy feel about Chun-Li dating him? He stared at her as she closed the door, a grocery bag in one arm. She bent to pet the cat, then approached the kitchen. He thought about bolting but where was the fun in that? She glanced up at him as she set the bag down. "I really am not looking forward to unpacking all of this stuff," she said.

"It's only one bag," he replied dryly, not really wanting to speak with her but unable to ignore her. Why wasn't she trying to arrest him?

She smiled and rolled her eyes at him. "Oh, ha ha. I wish. But I'd really prefer it if everything in this area were put up before my dad gets here later this week. I want the place to be sort of presentable, you know?"

He almost choked on his own saliva. Her dead-for-almost-a-decade dad? "Your dad," he echoed. Why was he talking to her? Why wasn't he running? This was a trap. It had to be.

"Hellooo? Earth to Andres! Drink more coffee," she said, waving a hand. That time he did choke a bit, coughing, seeming to break his own trance. Or maybe it'd been hearing her call him by that name, and in such a friendly way. He was supposed to be Vega, somebody she feared and loathed. Not a domesticated guy she flirted with cheerily.

"Doesn't the name 'Vega' mean anything to you?" he asked, plainly irritated at her obliviousness. She didn't seem to notice as she continued to pull food from the bag. Rice. Bread. Fruit. Her lips came together into a tight circle as she thought.

"Mmm, I think it might be the name of a star? And it's a surname, that I know," she said. "Why?"

"What about Shadaloo?" he pressed further. He felt like he shouldn't be asking her this. What if he was outing himself? But she seemed genuine. She was a lot of things, but generally not a good actor. There was no resentment in her eyes or voice. Nothing hidden, and she, like him, was too proud to suppress a disgust as primal as the one she felt for him.

"Come on, now you're just being silly," she said. "I know who they are." There was a sudden tight feeling in his chest. Here it was, this was it. "That's the whole reason my dad quit Interpol. They threatened to kill him. So he resigned. And I'm happy he did, no matter if he wonders if it was a good decision or not."

He let out the breath he'd been holding, forcing it to remain even and quiet. Was this a dream? Her father was alive, and no longer an Interpol detective. And her? What did she do? Was she a detective? What was the best way to figure that out without outright asking? If he really was dating her-or whatever this arrangement was-shouldn't he know? He wanted to laugh. Since when did he care about hurting her feelings? "And you aren't one either?" he ventured.

"No," she said, stretching the 'o' sound. "I don't think I'd ever go for something like that. Too dangerous. I like helping people, but there are better ways to do it than challenging terrorists and murderers and stuff."

Was it real? He kept watching her cautiously as she put away the groceries she'd bought. Did it do him any good to challenge her for now? He tried to calculate the risks of playing along. It could be some kind of a trap. After all, he couldn't remember how he got here. He remembered the warmth of the shower, opening his eyes with his head resting against the tiles. Before that...

Nothing came to mind. Just that woman at the bar in New York. So what had happened in the time it took him to get from New York to here? If it was an elaborate ruse, what was it for? She seemed to have figured out his real name. If she'd dug up that much, what else did she have on him? Or was that the point, to get him so confused by the situation that he'd blurt something out? Something incriminating, like asking her about Shadaloo?

No. He glanced at the picture on the fridge, and just couldn't bring himself to think that it was somehow doctored. He hadn't had short hair since he was young, and he'd never been to China in his youth. And he didn't look young in the photo anyway. There were surely better ways than this one to try to out him. But if that wasn't what was going on, he was still at a loss. Maybe he was dreaming. Or was this what a coma was like? Not that he had reason to believe something had happened that landed him in such a dire situation as that, but at this point he was grasping at anything.

"Why did you name the cat that?" he asked abruptly. She leaned away from the cabinet so she could make eye contact with him.

"Um...that was you," she reminded him. "You were calling her that before we even got her to come inside, remember?"

He looked at the orange cat. He named it after Cammy. Why would he do that? "What does Cammy think?" he asked. He waved a hand. "I mean English Cammy."

Chun-Li's eyebrows rose up a bit. "Who's that?"

"Cammy White?" he clarified. "You two are best friends." He couldn't keep the hint of resentment from creeping into his voice.

She seemed concerned, and took a few steps towards him. He tensed. She wasn't going to catch him by surprise, that much was certain. "I don't know anyone by that name," she said. "Are you feeling alright? You seem sort of uneasy."

"Yes," he answered.

"You remembered to take your medicine?"

Medicine? He clenched his jaw as he remembered that little bottle of antipsychotics. He wasn't psychotic. But if he said that, she probably wouldn't agree. It was just another problem to add to the pile. "Yes," he said. How was she going to prove otherwise?

"Okay. But no, I don't know anyone named Cammy."

That struck him as odd. The two were like a united front against Bison and Shadaloo. But if Chun-Li was truly no longer with Interpol-or, allegedly, had never been an officer to begin with-then he supposed she would never meet Cammy in her line of work. This was going to be a lot to keep track of. Or would it? What was making him obligated to be here? People break up all the time, and he certainly wasn't interested in a continued cohabitation with her, of all people.

Then he looked around at all of this stuff. His stuff, her stuff. How it was all together, that maddening photograph on the fridge. The way she held no contempt towards him. How he didn't even have anyone to call and ask what the hell was going on. He was supposedly crazy enough to warrant medication. So who was going to take seriously a psychotic questioning the nature of his reality? All of these things combined made him hesitant to jump ship just yet. He needed to figure out what was going on, and running off into a world that he didn't quite feel familiar with wasn't likely to get him anywhere good. He could try to approach the entire problem from a more methodical and logical stance than that. So he'd stay here for now, and tolerate her as best as he could until he could figure out what was happening. He just had to hope she wouldn't make him want to strangle her before then.