I.

Black.

Pitch black.

Patrick Jane woke up groggily to a picture of darkness. He laid flat on the surface before he slowly pushed himself up to sit on the dusty canvas. It took a couple of seconds for his eyes to adjust to the darkness that surrounded him. Another couple of seconds to get his bearings together. Another couple of seconds to realize he was in deep trouble.

He checked himself for a minute, tapping his suit and pants pocket, before he surveyed the room. His phone and CBI ID were gone. Even his trusty journal was taken. Fear and confusion were running through his veins by the time he was done assessing. The usually calm and collected Jane was nowhere to be found in his body. He was alone in a brick-walled room - a storage room, he thought. A few, small streaks of light coming from the minute holes of the bricks illuminated the room. This was a place where horror movies are made of. He watched too many gore films to know this wasn't going to go well for him. Once he gathered his thoughts again, it hit him: How did he get here?

His brain was going into overdrive by now. His memory palace was in shambles. Like someone dropped a bomb on it. He let out a frustrated sigh. He couldn't remember how he got into the room. Another amnesia? He certainly wouldn't hope so. He was now digging deep in his palace for the last thing he could remember. He was reaching straws but he hoped that somehow if he could recover that lost memory then he could be able to piece everything together.

While he was restoring his memory palace, he was also going into survival mode. He quickly stood up and began sizing up the place. Looking for a weak spot in the room, checking for things, items that he thinks might be useful. There was nothing. The room was clean. "That's odd," Jane said to himself. He knew this was once a storage room. He could vaguely see the darkened box streaks and rust lines on the floor. But it wasn't dusty at all. The room was just recently cleaned up. Someone carefully took his time to sweep away the remaining debris. This was surely premeditated, Jane assumed.

He looked around the room once more and glanced up. The cobweb-filled ceiling was high enough to dismiss any attempt of escape through that route. Actually, he just hated spiders. He might as well die right there than confront any creepy crawlies that slither around his three-piece suit. That was an irrational thought, he quickly conceded, but it was still impossible to get out from there. The only reasonable chance he could get out of the room was staring right in front of him. It was a steel door - that can only be unlocked from the outside. He is a master with locks but this was way beyond hopeless for him.

He sat back down with his back against the wall opposite the door. His stomach was rumbling. His mouth, dry. He must have been out for several hours. He removed his jacket and laid it beside him as his body was finally recognizing the warmth and humidity of the room. He rolled up his sleeves and let out another frustrated sigh; he still can't remember how he got locked up in here. "This whole ordeal wouldn't be so bad if Lisbon was here," he thought.

A light in his memory palace went back on.

"Lisbon!"

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