The reflection had no answer.
Staring back at him was a stranger—poised, unreadable, indifferent. A man carved from confidence without a flicker of recognition. Not a hint of Demien Walter remained in those eyes.
He stepped back and let the silence settle. No beeping monitors. No nurse. Just Monte Carlo's midday pulse bleeding through window seams—scooters honking, glasses clinking in distant cafés, a seagull's lonely cry over the harbor.
His bare feet felt foreign against cool marble. Each step wobbled slightly, not from clumsiness but difference. The rhythm had changed. His center of gravity sat higher. He flexed unfamiliar fingers and watched them curl—long, slim, too smooth. The scars were gone—the knuckle nicks from sliding tackles, the turf burns that never quite healed, that old fracture from Huddersfield away that ached when rain came. All erased.
He paced slow circles, breathing through his nose, trying to find normal. His shoulders sat higher. His back straightened without effort. Even the way he turned corners felt calculated, professional.
A flash of black caught his eye. Something sat atop a leather folio on the desk.
He approached cautiously, as if it might vanish.
A press badge clipped to dark leather with gold trim and thick stitching. Monaco quality. He lifted it—measured, careful—testing its unexpected weight.
Yves Laurent
Head Coach, AS Monaco FC
His thumb traced the laminate surface. The man in the photo was the mirror stranger. No smile. Just surgical confidence. White collar under black blazer, expression carved from strategy. There was power in that stare—the kind that never begged to be liked.
Demien's breath caught. This wasn't some joke or dream he'd forgotten how to wake from.
Yves Laurent. The name tugged at something.
He flipped open the leather folio beneath the badge. Papers sat in perfect organization, making him self-conscious about his messy notebooks from before. A meticulous itinerary filled the first page: breakfast slot, press briefing at 10:30, training by noon, tactical review at 15:00. Everything structured to the minute.
Player names covered the next sheets with positions and margin notes—"Morientes link-up?" and "Giuly drifting too wide—tighten inside channel."
A signature at the bottom: Y. Laurent.
Formations covered the next page. Red ink circled variations of a 4-3-3 diamond and a 4-2-2-2. Lines connected names to positions. Giuly. Evra. Plasil. Rothen.
Each name sparked recognition—not entirely his own. Facts half-known from another life. Giuly's bursting pace down the right. Evra bombing forward on the left. Monaco in red and white, hitting with controlled speed.
No. This couldn't be real.
He backed away from the desk as if distance might clarify things.
This wasn't limbo or coma dreaming. Not some pre-death flicker. It was too crisp, too tangible. The citrus scent from the minibar hung in the air. His hamstrings ached faintly like they'd run drills yesterday.
A hotel TV sat dark and silent across from the bed.
He didn't need to turn it on.
The name kept echoing.
Yves Laurent.
He tested it aloud, quietly. "Yves Laurent."
It rolled off his tongue with unexpected weight.
Then—pain.
A sudden, blinding jolt split his skull. His hands shot to his temples as a groan escaped his throat.
Flashes exploded behind his eyelids.
A boardroom. Anger twisted across a polished table. "This isn't Lyon. You won't bully Monaco."
A tunnel lined with red banners. Camera flashes. "Coach Laurent—about those rumors?"
Stadium roar. Floodlights blazing over Stade Louis II. "Run harder! Cut inside! Drop deep, damn it!"
Memories not his—yet somehow his.
Like watching another man's life through his own skull—no context, just raw feeling. Rage. Pressure. Cold satisfaction when balls hit nets. Pride swelling in a voice both his and not.
He dropped to one knee.
The pain peaked—then vanished as suddenly as it came.
Sweat dampened his collar. His hands trembled.
Something inside had shifted.
Muscle memory that wasn't his aligned like puzzle pieces. He suddenly knew things. Names. Where the staff locker stood. How the youth director hated Rothen's attitude. Why Evra needed shorter warm-ups due to an old ligament issue.
He hadn't learned these things.
They were simply... there.
He staggered to his feet, eyes falling on the badge still open on the desk.
Yves Laurent.
It wasn't just a name anymore.