She first appeared this past Tuesday morning as I woke, and from that moment on, she seized control of my thoughts and my days. She had manifested out of nowhere—unexpected, like a surprise or, more accurately, a shock. Initially she was only an image, the third in a sequence that shattered the quiet rhythm of my life: first, a restaurant menu emblazoned with the word Yucatán, then her elegant left hand marked with a small tattoo on the wrist, and finally her face—beautiful, charged with fear and urgency. Three vivid images that flashed behind my eyes as I surfaced from sleep, accompanied by a searing wave of warmth that surged through my body.

I remember sitting on the bed for a long time, drenched in sweat, heart pounding, unable to move. I had told myself it was just a nightmare. It had been seven days since my last mission and I’d never had issues before, so I thought little of it. After the shock wore off, I had a quick breakfast, skimmed the news without taking any of it in, and set out with a book and a blanket for Hudson River Park, where I spent the afternoon. That evening, I ordered from my favorite Japanese place, cracked open a couple of Kirins, and let a quiet soccer game hum in the background. I ended the night playing my favorite video game into the wee hours.

The next morning, Wednesday, she took on a more defined form, becoming even more real. Upon waking—just as the day before—a wave of warmth surged through me, followed by three rapid images. The first two were unchanged: the cover of the Yucatán restaurant menu and the delicate, feminine hand with a black rosebud tattoo on the wrist. But in the third, the static image from the day before shifted into a brief, animated sequence. She looked into my eyes and pleaded, “Gabriel, help me.” A dazzling, distressing flash made me jolt upright—and then everything went dark.

I slowly regained awareness, dazed and washed out, as if I’d just endured an intense physical ordeal. She had called me by name. Her face, her voice—too vivid, too precise to be figments of my imagination. The rest of the morning, I spent searching for her, combing through my recent past with Angélique, my virtual assistant, trying to recall any sign of her. But it was no use. She had left no trace—neither in the places I’d been nor among the people I’d encountered.

On Thursday morning, she finally revealed her name to me. Upon waking, the three flashes merged into a single, continuous sequence, and even the wave of warmth felt softer, more tender. I saw her seated at a restaurant table, her left hand resting beside the menu inscribed with Yucatán. The tattoo was still there, clearly visible. With a sweet but frightened expression, she again pleaded, “Gabriel, help me.” And this time, as if in a mirrored reflection, I responded, “Don’t worry, Anna. I’m here with you.”

I replayed that scene in my mind over and over, afraid of losing even the smallest detail. For the first time, I had begun to suspect her appearance was connected to my last mission. It couldn’t have been just a dream. I needed answers. Contacting Real Dreams was out of the question—doing so might jeopardize my work. So I decided to investigate on my own.

While searching for answers, I stumbled upon an article about residual fragments of dreams. The author claimed that a sudden awakening during the dream-erasure phase could leave behind incomplete traces, fragments that, when triggered by sensory experiences, might resurface as conscious memories. My plan was simple: Immerse myself in as many sensory experiences as possible.

I began exploring the city, sampling dishes from across New York’s neighborhoods. But on Friday morning, when I woke, she didn’t appear. No flash, no warmth—just the dull impression that I hadn’t dreamed at all.

Saturday was no different. No vision on waking, no memory of any dreams. The temptation to give up and forget was strong, yet the sensations of the previous days still echoed in me, urging me on. If my father had been in my place, he wouldn’t have let the search go so easily.

That evening, after a long day exploring Brooklyn, I decided to reach out to Paul. I had known him for about a year through our online game, Future-Chess. Paul—better known as Baron Paul from New York—was a legend among players. Once, during a casual conversation, he’d asked about my work. When I mentionedReal Dreams, he immediately changed the subject and asked me to forget we’d spoken. Later, another player confided that Paul actually worked for Real Dreams, though he never discussed it with anyone. After that day, Paul stopped inviting me to tournaments, but we still played together from time to time.

Late that night, after waiting hours in vain for him to log into the game, I finally sent him a message:

2034.04.23 – 01:00 AM

Hi Paul, how are you? I need your help and would like to see you in person. Are you available today (Sunday) for a coffee? Thanks. Gabriel

Exhausted from the day, I fell into a deep sleep.