A message flashed on the screen: Welcome to the Hall of Shadows Private Labyrinth. Two icons appeared. To the left was a beast with the head of a bull and the body of a man; to the right was a warrior wearing armor and holding a shield and a sword. The text under it asked:

Declare yourself: Minotaur or Hero

Desmond pondered the question. In some form it had haunted him since he had woken up: what was he? Was he a monster who had killed in that hotel room? He had assaulted the police officers and hotel security guard without hesitation. And he had been good at it; it probably wasn’t the first time he had fought for his life and freedom. His scar-ridden body supported that idea. And in the recesses of his mind, somewhere, he knew that he had done bad things, though he couldn’t remember them.

Yet deep down he still felt that he was a good person. Or maybe that was just what he wanted to be.

The thought brought clarity: he would enter the labyrinth as he wanted himself to be, not as he was or had been.

He clicked the hero icon. The screen faded, and a box popped up: Searching for entrance…

A minute later, the text turned to red and flashed a new message: No entrance found. Continue searching, Theseus. Never give up.

Desmond wondered what it all meant. He did a series of web searches, trying to connect the dots. The labyrinth had first appeared in Greek mythology. Daedalus and his son Icarus had built the labyrinth to hold the half-man, half-beast Minotaur that dwelled at its center. Daedalus was a brilliant craftsman and artist, and his design was so ingenious that he himself had almost gotten trapped within his own labyrinth.

At that moment, Desmond realized what he had suspected ever since he’d heard his own voice on the voicemail recording: like Daedalus, he was trapped in a labyrinth that he himself had constructed. But why? Did he have a proverbial Minotaur—a beast or secret he wished to hide from the world, or to protect the world from? Was he the monster he feared?

And he realized something else. If he had built this labyrinth, he must have known that at some point he would enter it, that he would lose his memories—either by his own choosing or by someone else’s actions. Was the labyrinth an elaborate backup plan? Would it lead him to whatever it was he needed? Would it somehow allow him to get his memories back?

He eased himself up and folded the Murphy bed into the wall. That gave him room to pace in the tiny flat, which was no larger than twelve by twenty feet. The wall opposite the bed held a simple kitchen: a counter with a sink, small refrigerator, stove, microwave, and a TV. The bathroom was a wet room without a single square inch to spare.

Desmond walked to the window and looked down. It was six p.m., and the streets were packed. A layer of cigarette smoke mixed with car, bus, and motorcycle exhaust. The toxic brew drifted up, casting the scene in haze. The sun was low in the late November sky, and it would set soon.