Chapter 2: The Man in the Mirror
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.