A gasp tore through the room like it didn't belong.
Demien's chest heaved against sheets that felt wrong—too smooth, too luxurious. The air was infused with scents he had never owned: clean linen and a subtle cologne. Crown molding curved overhead where only darkness and twisted metal should have been.
His body moved differently. Limbs stretched longer than they should. Skin pulled tight over muscles that hadn't existed moments ago. When he sat up, his back didn't protest with familiar aches.
The room sparkled with wealth. Tall windows framed Monaco's harbor, where yachts floated like white toys on water that caught the morning light. Everything gleamed—marble surfaces, polished wood, and crystal glasses on a side table.
None of it belonged to his memories.
He stumbled toward the mirror, expecting to see his own face—scarred hands, hollow eyes, the worn look of a man who had run out of the road.
Instead, a stranger stared back.
An angular jawline. Dark hair combed with precision. Eyes sharp and calculating, not dulled by defeat. This face had never known failure, begged for trials, nor sat in third-division boardrooms explaining why formations mattered.
These hands—his hands—showed no scars from desperate tackles, no calluses from gripping steering wheels during long drives to nowhere jobs.
The leather portfolio sat on the nightstand as if it belonged there. Inside, a press tag caught the light. Monaco's crest gleamed in official colors above text that made his stomach drop:
Yves Laurent, Head Coach, AS Monaco FC.
The photo matched the mirror, matched this face that wasn't his.
Yves Laurent. The name carried weight in French football. The tactical genius who had taken Monaco from mid-table to Champions League qualification. Who had built systems that bigger clubs studied and copied?
Pain split his skull like an axe blow.
Boardroom. Polished table. An angry face across expensive wood.
"This isn't Lyon. You won't bully Monaco."
The voice came from his throat but wasn't his. The words felt familiar yet foreign.
Tunnel lights. Red banners. Cameras flashing.
Stadium roar rolling over him like thunder.
"Run harder! Cut inside!"
He had never given instructions to players he had never coached, but the memories felt real, felt lived.
Another wave of pain brought more fragments: press conferences where he had explained tactical concepts to rooms full of skeptical journalists, training sessions where players had hung on his every word, and victory celebrations in dressing rooms that smelled of champagne and sweat.
He opened the tactical portfolio with trembling hands.
Player names filled the pages in handwriting that looked like his own: Morientes, Giuly, Rothen, Evra. Notes about link-up play and positioning. Formation diagrams in red ink showing 4-3-3 variations with diamond midfields.
At the bottom of each page, a signature: Y. Laurent.
The memories weren't just bleeding through now; they were flooding. Washing over his consciousness like waves of sand.
He knew these players, their strengths and weaknesses, how to set up against PSG's attacking runs, and which substitutions would unlock tight games.
The knowledge that should have taken years to accumulate was simply there. Available. As if he had always possessed it.
But underneath the tactical understanding, Demien Walter remained—the failed footballer who had died on a French road still lived inside this successful coach's body.
The phone buzzed.
Michel appeared on the screen—Monaco's assistant coach, a man whose face he recognized from borrowed memories.
"Coach Laurent? Press briefing in thirty minutes."
His throat felt dry. "Right."
"Everything okay? You sound different."
The line went quiet, Michel waiting for familiar responses from the tactical mastermind who had guided Monaco to European qualification.
"Just tired," he managed.
"Get some coffee. The journalists want to discuss our Champions League preparations."
Champions League. The competition Demien Walter had dreamed of reaching his entire career. The stage where only the best clubs belonged.
And somehow, he was already there.