Jason's point of view, sometime in between Identity and Supremacy. Word: Jazz.
Somewhere in the twilit park, a band was playing a cover of a fairly obscure jazz song. A distinctive chord rang out, and Jason gasped, awash with sudden memory.
A frightened face pleaded for mercy in the middle of a richly decorated flat. In the background, a stereo played the same jazz song. Jason raised his gun, silencer affixed to the barrel, and fired.
The image deserted him as abruptly as it had come. Hands shoved him roughly away; he had staggered into a passerby.
Sweating, he muttered, "Excuse me," before rushing off to discover the song's title.