Todos los capítulos de Remember me naked: Capítulo 191 - Capítulo 200

AlexandreA dull noise. Then another. A heavy beat in my ears. As if my own heart were pounding against my temples to remind me that I am still here. Then a smell: the acrid scent of disinfectant, the iron of dried blood, the artificial sweetness of oxygen that fails to fill my lungs.I float between two waters. My eyes want to open, but my eyelids are sealed, heavy as if sewn shut. My body is numb, a prisoner of forced sleep. I feel the needles, the bandages, the tubes that prevent me from moving.When a sliver of light finally breaks through, the world assaults me with a white too violent. Regular beeping marks my survival. Each breath feels like a bite in my chest. My side burns: the wound, the bullet. The operation. My body remembers before my mind does.Then everything comes flooding back. The party. The screams. The hooded men. Lyra taken from us. Lucas wounded. Tania screaming. My own blood on my fingers.A word tears from my lips before I can think.— LYRA!The voice is hoarse

AlexandreThe staff makes their rounds. A nurse enters, checks the IVs, asks me if I need anything. I shake my head. She leaves, murmuring a "good evening" that floats like an unnecessary blessing. When the door closes again, I feel the solitude densify. It is in this solitude that I forge my first decisions: it will not be the police alone who will lead this quest. Too many shadows, too many expectations. But I do not say "I will take revenge" as an impulsive cry; I tell myself "I will understand" and "I will protect." Between these two verbs lies the distance I am willing to cross.I think of Tania. Of the strength contained in her hands that held me just now. Of the way she said, without hesitation, that she would go all the way. She is not just a calming presence: she becomes a relay, a conscience that brings me back when rage would push me forward. I can already imagine her, the night to come, standing in front of a board, gathering calls, interrogating faces, doing what the poli

AlexandreThe acrid smell of disinfectants clings to my throat. Each breath reminds me of the burn of my bandaged ribs, the bursts of pain in my leg. The pale light of the hospital room knows neither day nor night. Everything blurs into a feverish wakefulness, a waking nightmare where Lyra disappears with every heartbeat.When the door opens, I first think it's a nurse. But the silhouette that steps over the threshold is anything but reassuring: dark suit, coat folded over the arm, piercing gaze. Lieutenant Moreau.He advances not as a visitor, but as a judge. His eyes scan the room, then fixate on me.— Mr. Delcourt, he says in a low but firm voice. We need to talk.He pulls out a chair and sits near my bed. His black notebook appears immediately, like a silent weapon. Every gesture is precise, methodical.— You were present during the abduction. You were injured. Your timeline is clear. But I am not here for that. I want to understand who would have an interest in striking like this

Lyra's MotherTime had stopped since my daughter's abduction. Each hour sounded like a suspended condemnation, each silence resonated like a betrayal. I lived in this house turned mausoleum, where every room reminded me of her absence: a scarf forgotten on a chair, a cup left in the kitchen, her scent still clinging to the sheets.When Lieutenant Moreau asked to see us, I knew it was not to bring us deliverance. His face already said too much as he crossed the threshold: taut pallor, clenched jaw, gaze fixed straight ahead, like a doctor announcing a verdict.He sat down in the living room. My husband, with a calm facade, crossed his arms to contain his trembling. I remained standing, unable to sit, as if sitting would mean giving in.— Tell us, lieutenant, I said. But tell us everything.His voice was measured at first. Too measured.— I reopened the Cassandre file. You knew she had been incarcerated.I nodded. How could I forget? Cassandre, the constant threat, the sickly shadow aro

LyraI no longer know if it is day or night. The darkness and the neon light alternate like slaps, but I can't tell how many hours I've been sitting here. One day, maybe two? I don't know. What I do know, however, is that my body is screaming.My throat is an open wound. My lips are cracked, my tongue sticks to my palate. I can barely swallow my own saliva. Thirst is everywhere, in my head, in my veins, in every tremor of my muscles. I feel the fire in my throat spreading to my temples.I raise my eyes to my captors. Two silhouettes standing against the door, always the same. They speak little, but I feel their presence, heavy, oppressive, like two guard dogs waiting for their master's signal.My voice, when it comes out, is a hoarse whisper:— Please… a little water…They exchange a glance, then laugh. A laugh that doesn't explode, but crawls, infiltrates. The taller one approaches, his shadow swallowing me. I lower my head involuntarily.— You're thirsty, little princess? he breathes