Silence pressed in, watching rather than questioning.
Demien stood frozen beside the desk. The press tag caught sunlight through the window, making Yves Laurent glow like a brand. The name had anchored itself inside him now, carved something permanent beneath his skin.
He blinked slowly. The harsh light aggravated his nerves, still raw from the skull-splitting pain. Without thinking, he yanked the curtain cord. Shadows flooded the room—cool, clean, quiet.
The weight returned the moment darkness fell.
Something tightened in his chest. Something wrong pulsed behind his eyes.
He turned toward the bed, fingers grazing the mattress corner—and the floor shifted beneath him. His legs buckled without warning. He dropped hard, knees cracking against marble. Palms slapped cold stone just in time. His fingers spread against the polished surface as he gasped, pressure building again.
Then it hit him.
Not exactly pain.
Invasion.
Flashes surged behind his eyes, forceful and foreign:
Monaco’s squad photo—red and white kits crisp against green pitch.
A boardroom confrontation—balding man in cheap suit pounding lacquered wood, spit flying.
Tunnel walls slick with condensation—boots clicking on concrete, his boots, gray suit brushing his knees.
Press conference—microphones aimed like weapons, his voice deeper than he remembered: "This squad needs courage, not excuses."
He flinched hard.
The marble stayed cool beneath his hands, but the world tilted sideways.
Demien clutched his head, teeth gritted. His neck pulsed in rhythm with the alien memories—each heartbeat delivering another glimpse of someone else’s life that felt unmistakably familiar.
The smell of Stade Louis II’s turf filled his nostrils—not grass but synthetic, faintly scorched from heat lamps.
An Armani collar scratched against his throat. A whistle’s weight hung from his wrist.
Names appeared on a chalkboard he’d never touched—Giuly, Evra, Plasil—all written in handwriting he recognized as his own.
No. Not his.
Yves Laurent’s.
Except now, no difference remained.
He collapsed back against the bedframe, breathless. Sweat trickled down his temple. One arm hung limply while the other pressed against his chest. Each breath seemed to drag in more than air—it pulled in weight, history, identity.
A minute passed. Maybe ten. His heartbeat gradually steadied—too calm, too controlled to feel like his own.
When he opened his eyes, everything looked the same. Nothing felt the same.
This wasn’t merely waking in another man’s body.
The life came with it.
Every name on Monaco’s squad list now carried meaning beyond stats or positions—they were stories, personalities, needs. Plasil lacked confidence. Giuly needed space to float between lines. Evra performed best when pressed high early. Zikos couldn’t track runners late in matches. Rothen struggled with his temper. Morientes hadn’t arrived yet, but the deal was nearly closed.
Demien knew all this without reading it.
He remembered it.
The past bled into him—or perhaps the future rewrote it.
The hotel TV suddenly buzzed to life behind him. A low hum. Dim sound. The screen had been on standby, possibly left running overnight by staff. Or by Yves.
He turned slowly, half-expecting another hallucination.
The screen glowed in the corner. Channel 4 Monaco Sport showed a news anchor mid-sentence with French text scrolling below: Ligue 1: AS Monaco begin preseason at Stade Louis IICoach Yves Laurent prepares squad for European challenge
The reporter’s voice cut through 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 didn’t watch the words—he watched his reflection ghosting in the glass.
Yves Laurent’s face. Demien’s eyes.
He didn’t flinch this time.
Silence pressed in again.
One thought crystallized through the noise—clear, simple, undeniable.
"I’m Yves Laurent..."