Silence. Not the wet, heavy silence of a roadside crash—this was lighter. Strange. Still.
Then breath.
A gasp tore through the room like it didn't belong. Sharp. Sudden. Too alive.
Demien's body lurched upright. Sheets tangled around his legs, drenched in sweat. His lungs fought for air like they'd never tasted it. His chest expanded against fabric that felt too soft, too smooth—silk? He blinked against the dim light, pupils slow to adjust. Shadows clung to the corners of the room.
The ceiling was unfamiliar. White, carved, elegant. Crown molding, polished beams. Not a hospital. Not a car.
This isn't the crash.
Hands trembled as they pushed off the mattress—too steady, too toned. The weight was wrong. Limbs longer. Skin tight across muscle that shouldn't be there. His legs swung off the bed and met a cold marble floor.
No carpet. No clutter. No sign of the half-dead footballer who'd fallen asleep to the sound of wipers.
A low hum filled the air—an HVAC unit purring like a satisfied cat. It smelled faintly of bergamot and clean linen. Hotel room. Upscale. French Riviera expensive.
He rose too quickly. The floor tilted, and his shin struck the corner of a gold-trimmed dresser.
"Shit—" The voice that left his throat stopped him cold.
Deeper. Polished. With a faint, unmistakable lilt—French.
His hand went to his throat as if he could dig the truth out with his fingers. Nothing made sense. Panic rose like a wave, sharp and cold and fast. He stumbled across the room, past an open suitcase—suit neatly folded, cologne bottle untouched—and reached the full-length mirror opposite the bed.
He froze.
The man in the mirror wasn't Demien Walter.
Dark, combed-back hair. Angular jawline. A face untouched by age or regret. Taller, leaner. There was a sharpness to the eyes, the cheekbones, the cut of his posture—someone used to being watched. Respected. Feared.
Not him.
His reflection raised a hand.
So did he.
The man in the mirror blinked.
So did he.
"No," he muttered, backing up a step, breath shallow.
He reached for the light switch and flicked it up. The room exploded into gold and cream. Marble gleamed under his bare feet. Curtains, half-parted, spilled warm sunlight over an enormous king-sized bed. The city glittered outside the tall windows—Monte Carlo, unmistakable. The coastline curled in the distance, caught between sea and sky.
His heartbeat thudded against his ribs. The man in the mirror stared back.
This wasn't a hospital. There were no IVs, no nurses. No scars. No blood. No wreckage.
Just him.
And a name.
His eyes flicked to the table beside the bed. A leather-bound portfolio sat open, a press tag tucked into the corner.
Yves LaurentHead Coach, AS Monaco FC
The floor swayed again. He grabbed the edge of the desk, knuckles white.
AS Monaco?
His brain struggled to arrange the pieces, but they refused to fit. Yves Laurent. The name tickled something at the back of his mind—an old headline, a pre-season article from years ago.
Then it hit him.
2003-The season Monaco stormed to the Champions League final. Evra. Giuly. Rothen. Fernando Morientes on loan from Real Madrid.
Demien's lips parted. "This can't be…"
Knuckles rapped on the door.
A voice, muffled but firm: "Coach Laurent? Press briefing in thirty minutes."
He stood paralyzed.
Another knock. Softer this time. Then silence.
He didn't respond.
Somewhere down the hall, footsteps faded.
He turned slowly back toward the mirror.
The man in front of him was breathing heavy. Pale.
This wasn't a dream. Or a near-death hallucination.
The glass didn't lie.
"Who the hell is this?" he whispered.
The reflection had no answer.