Silence pressed in from all sides. The kind that didn't ask questions. The kind that just... watched.
Demien stood motionless beside the desk, the press tag still glowing faintly in the sunbeam that sliced through the window. Yves Laurent. The name hadn't stopped echoing since it left his lips, but now it had settled—anchored. As if saying it had carved something into him. Something permanent.
He blinked, slow. The light was too harsh. His nerves still buzzed from the pain that had shot through his skull minutes ago. He reached for the curtain cord without thinking and dragged it down in one pull. Shadows spilled across the room like a tide—cool, clean, quiet.
The moment the sunlight vanished, the weight returned.
A tightness in his chest. Something wrong behind his eyes.
He turned toward the bed, hand brushing the corner of the mattress—and the floor tilted beneath him. Legs gave out without warning. He dropped hard. Knees hit marble. Palms caught just in time. His fingers splayed against the polished surface, and he gasped as the pressure built again.
Then it hit.
Not pain. Not exactly.
More like... invasion.
Flashes surged behind his eyes. Not memories. Not his.
A photo—Monaco's squad lined in rows, red and white kits sharp against the green pitch.A boardroom. Balding man in a cheap suit pounding a fist on lacquered wood. Spit flying.Tunnel walls sweating under floodlights. Boots clicking across concrete. His boots. A grey suit brushing his knees.A press conference. Microphones angled like weapons. His own voice, but deeper, slicing through the noise:"This squad needs courage, not excuses."
He flinched.
The floor didn't move. The marble stayed cool beneath his hands. But the world felt tilted.
Demien gritted his teeth and clutched his head. The pulse in his neck throbbed in sync with the memories—each beat bringing another glimpse of a life not lived, yet deeply, unmistakably known.
He could smell the Stade Louis II's turf. Not grass—turf. Faintly burned from heat lamps.He could feel the scratch of an Armani collar around his neck. Hear the whistle looped around his wrist.See names on a chalkboard he hadn't touched—Giuly, Evra, Plasil—all scrawled in his own handwriting.
No. Not his.
Yves Laurent's.
Except—there was no difference now.
Breathless, he collapsed back against the bedframe. Sweat trickled down his temple. One arm hung limp, the other rested against his chest. Each inhale rasped like it was dragging in more than air. Like it was dragging in weight.
A minute passed. Or maybe ten. His heartbeat slowed—though it didn't feel like his, not quite. Too steady. Too calm.
He opened his eyes.
Everything looked the same. But nothing felt the same.
This wasn't just a stolen face. It wasn't just waking up in someone else's skin.
The life came with it.
Every name in the Monaco squad list now had meaning. Not just stats or positions—stories. Plasil needed confidence. Giuly needed space to float between lines. Evra thrived when pressed high early. Zikos couldn't be trusted to track runners late in the match. Rothen had a temper problem. Morientes hadn't arrived yet—but the deal was close.
Demien knew this.
He hadn't read it.
He remembered it.
The past was bleeding into him. Or maybe the future was rewriting it.
Behind him, the hotel TV buzzed to life. A low hum. Dim sound. The screen had been on standby—maybe left running overnight by staff, or by Yves.
He turned his head slowly, half-expecting another hallucination.
The screen glowed in the corner. Channel 4 Monaco Sport. News anchor mid-sentence, scrolling text in French at the bottom.Ligue 1: AS Monaco begin preseason at Stade Louis IICoach Yves Laurent prepares squad for European challenge
The reporter's voice slipped through the static like a knife through silk:
"AS Monaco begin their preseason training today at Stade Louis II, with head coach Yves Laurent preparing for the club's European return after finishing second last season..."
His breath caught.
He watched the screen. Not the words—his reflection. Barely visible in the glass, ghostlike and still.
Yves Laurent's face. Demien's eyes.
He didn't flinch this time.
The silence pressed in again.
One thought rose through the noise—clear, simple, undeniable.
"I'm Yves Laurent…"