Who was I before I lost my name?

Who was before I lost my name?

Clarence Cordero

Name: Unknown

Age: 18 years old, turning 19 in a few months. * * * * * * * * * * He was nothing but a well oiled fighting machine. A soldier. A killer. An assassin. An infiltrator. A master of disguise.

He can be everything and then nothing—the shining star of a famous gala and then the darkness, blending in the night.

Orders are everything.

There's no guidebook for his actions, always playing with his best cards.

He can play dirty like the Joker, act regal like the King, strike viciously like the Queen, and blow everything up like the picture-perfect Ace weapon. A full house of everything the underworld needs.

Yes, not human...but a weapon.

There's also no other priority in his sight, only the mission his employers had given him and had garnered his services. To finish the job with 100% perfection is his goal.

No mistakes could happen.

No mishaps should occur.

Every map is checked, and each escape route is planned for every possible end. Even if the mission's succession means acquiring a new injury, he's okay with it as long as the payment suffices his demands.

He's also very patient.

Able to sit still for hours on end like a plastic mannequin. Able to organize in the middle of a crossfire to line a perfect shot. Able to stay calm and alert even when he's dying from the blood loss. He cannot heal himself entirely, the lingering yellow flames leaving silvery lines of scars, for his flames had not been tuned to heal himself nor others but to destroy and burn his foes.

Thus, his body became a canvas of every war trophy.

Bruises, slashes, gashes, bites, scrapes, incisions, bullet marks, heat seared skin, and even jagged lines from shrapnels from the shell of a bomb.

All of it was displayed in full glory. Never hiding his form. Never afraid of the scrutiny of the others.

His growing fame may only be the lick of their salt, and he's prouder of it every day.

Yet despite all the demand for his loyalty in one central underground family, he never stayed.

He could never stay. Never get too close. Never get too attached. It's a risk he will never willingly take.

"Sometimes, to protect someone, you have to force yourself to stay away," a voice cracked somewhere in his hazy memory.

Someone he probably knows a long time ago but got lost in the passage of time. Only remembered when needed, which is rare at most. It's weird...different...to lose something you've been able to recall before.

After collapsing in his last escape, doctors who found him said he's suffering from a sort of memory loss.

Selective amnesia, was it? He can't remember.

They then tried asking his name, but he merely gave them a confused look.

Why would they ask that? None of his clients had asked him. His caretakers never gave him one either. Should he just...name himself? It felt wrong, though.

He always let others name him for the sake of fun and...curiosity perhaps. Like what would they call him? Another title? Another alias? "I...don't know," he confessed.

Really weird. He shouldn't lie. He didn't know why but he didn't want to lie about that. Nobody asked him before, and those who knew about his true identity were rotting in their graves or had been rendered to ashes, all done by himself.

Thus, with no one to remind him, he forgot about it.

It isn't necessary, after all.

It's just one of the things he willingly gave up to enter his world of blood and death. And as much as a killer, he had grown to be; he stays true to his word. In the end, they decided to name him as John Doe, a name for an unidentified man, a fitting yet one that is also mostly reserved for the dead in a forensic lab.

Of course, they didn't call him that upfront but merely addressed him as "Sir" or "Mr. Black" because of his onyx eyes, a clear sign of respect and confidentiality to the patient. He mainly heard the ruse from one of the friendlier nursing staff after asking about it, telling him that it was supposedly done to make fun of him since it somehow plays as a double joke to them.

John Doe, a name for the dead given to a living person without any trace of being alive. As he'd said, it's very fitting for someone like him.

No known identity. No close family to contact. Not even much of a discernable feature other than the curly sideburns and his seemingly bottomless eyes.

Tanned skin, sharp nose, onyx eyes, somewhat spiky black hair, an average height since he hadn't hit his growth spurt yet, and a normally lithe build which is clearly built for speed.

Other than that, it's just...plain normal, a face you'd immediately lose in a crowd if you don't pay attention.

He merely smiled at the description, feeling proud of himself. Of course, he'd look 'normal' to them right now. They're supposed to see him that way. His charisma isn't made for this type of mission, and so he lets them think about what they want. This is merely another part of his practice for future espionage or infiltration missions. The next day after they've confirmed his surprising full health – his flames finally did its job and also became that one thing that gained the attention of the doctors who planned on making a research paper focused on him – John Doe disappeared carrying his medical reports in a white folder and a destroyed computer mainframe of the hospital. His escapade was no fancy move.

Merely sneaking in the staff room and opening one locker to masquerade as an on duty nurse, hacking into their computer, and finishing the job by accessing the specialized computer virus he had asked and customized for situations like this.

Getting all those out of his way, he knocked someone out, got their uniform, then slipped away by walking out of their front door. Easy as pie.

"No reco...s sh..uld s..y. Unr...vant inf..rm...n sho... be wip..d ...t," the buzzing voice had turned to static in his ears, though it seemed to be a sort of order, one he had followed since the start in his career, never really bothered to listen to over and over again.

Glancing at the thin stack of what should be his written medical chart, he paused and contemplated on burning it or reading what they've put down as observation.

He did the latter and was greeted by an almost space on his personal history as a patient. He smiled at the clean view.

Named as John Doe. Gender is male. The blood type is +AB. Birth Date unknown. Age unknown. Mother unknown. Father unknown. Contact number unknown. Address unknown. Weight was only approximated. Same with his height.

They can't just do something to him while he's asleep, after all. He can somehow see their frustrations in dealing with that.

The rest of the pile centered on his complications like having a rare case of having his heart on the wrong side of his chest called 'Dextrocardia situs inversus', meaning his heart is on the right side of his chest rather than on the left chest. He pursed his lips in dismay. While it's good to have a name on his heart location, finally, he already knew his condition. It isn't exciting knowing that.

Though talk about the irony of being called 'The Devil' by some of his clients. His heart is indeed in the wrong place, yet entirely fitting for a criminal. The remaining files were indeed not interesting enough, and he called it quits. Raising the tip of his finger as if forming a gun, he set fire to the paper and watched the wind blow away the burning paper.

"Chaos," he said as he grinned, white teeth gleaming dangerously to those who knew how strong someone could bite without stopping their strength. A satisfied hum vibrated from his chest as the ashes danced in the wind.

It's just another day where everyone forgets him, only remembering the mysterious John Doe but not giving enough attention to it.

It's a hospital. People always go in and out of there. One less person without anything to back them up nor to act as a reference would be a cold case in the court.

He knew so, for he had once sent a client who's not willing to pay him to the jury with all his crimes aired to the nation. He can remember that the guy was some low-rank government official who only got connections because of drug trafficking. Maybe even some export-import to add on.

Of course, he had already collected his delayed payment before selling the guy out. It's no good doing business if you don't collect your pay.

Humming a nameless tune, the man who would introduce himself to society with his titles, though would be more known and feared as 'The Number One Hitman,' a well-deserved title, of course, walked away from the pile of ashes that were not swept away by the wind.

Leaving nothing but the remnants of burnt paper.

A name reserved for the dead.