Two men in dark suits, standing too still at a café across the street. One spoke into his cuff. The other had his hand inside his jacket.

He opened the passport again. Jason Bourne . But the way those men moved — the way he moved — told him the truth.

He pulled himself out, shivering, and found a gym bag under a bench. Inside: a Swiss passport with a face that matched his own — Jason Bourne — a wad of euros, a 9mm pistol with the serial number filed off, and a small metal key with a number: 447.

But he wasn't a normal man.

He didn't know his name.

Jason Bourne wasn't a person.

And then he saw them.

He should have gone to the police. Every instinct of a normal man would have screamed for help, for an ambulance, for answers.