For a brief second, Julian had a little sympathy and thought of where the real Mr Brown Caldwell's soul might be and where his own body is, but even in another life, you can still be haunted by your own. Brown woke up choking heavily, not gasping, not startled, but choking heavily, like someone who was almost strangled to death. His heart was pounding like it was trying to claw its way out. Beside him, Jasmine stirred and mumbled something in her sleep, unaware of what she said. The room was warm. The sheets were silk. But inside Julian, there was frost. The dream still clung to him like wet fabric.
He saw his face. The one he was born with, Julian Blackwood, stared at him through a mirror. Eyes wild. Mouth moving, but no sound came out. And then suddenly, the reflection slammed its fists against the glass.
Then screamed. Brown touched his chest as if it could still echo there.
"What are you trying to tell me?" He muttered. As the sky hit dawn, Julian (in Brown) rushed to the bathroom to take his bath, followed by Jasmine as she went in after him, and after some while, they both left for the office, but in their different luxurious cars.
He arrived at the office early; it was a Monday morning, and he needed to look sharp; he was earlier than usual. Something about that dream gnawed at his brain. A warning, maybe. A clue. He passed Brooke, who gave him her usual tight-lipped smile and handed over his coffee without a word. Inside his office, silence wrapped around him like a secret. He set down the coffee, turned toward his desk, and froze. Someone had left a folded paper on his chair. Not emailed. Not texted. A real piece of paper just folded. He opened it slowly. One sentence, handwritten in jagged black ink:
"The body you left behind is not yours anymore. And he's coming."
He dropped into the leather chair and stared at the words as they might rearrange into something that made sense. But they didn't. They just stared back at him like a threat or a prophecy. He was stunned and curious; all that was on his mind was:
Who knew? Who saw what happened that night? And who the hell was "he"?
The city of Miami was loud with life, but inside an apartment, everything felt dead.
A single shaft of light sliced through the cracked blinds, landing on the chipped tiles of a tiny, dingy bathroom. The mirror above the sink was cracked at the corner, splintering his reflection like a warning. Brown Caldwell, or what was left of him, stood shirtless before it, breathing so hard. He didn't recognise the face he was seeing in the mirror; 5 days had passed since he'd first woken up on Wednesday morning, curled on a mattress that wasn't his, in a body that didn't belong to him, and in a city far from anything he called home. New York was gone. The penthouse. The expensive, luxurious watch collection. The private gym. The women. The power. And Jasmine, now he was just... this.
Thin. Pale. Smaller in every way. The body was soft in places he wasn't used to. Hairier. Lighter. The hands weren't made to hold cigars or fire people. The jawline wasn't his. But the eyes were still as sharp, cold, and burning with fury, those that had followed him through the veil. Brown Caldwell's soul had been shoved into someone else's skin.
And that someone was Julian Blackwood.
He gripped the sink, ceramic, old, and his fingers curled so tight the porcelain cracked beneath his palms. "What the fuck did you do to me?" he cursed out. He hissed through his clenched teeth, staring deep into the reflection like he could break through it and pull his real self back to life. He hadn't stepped outside since he woke up. He hadn't eaten properly. The smell of stale coffee and sweat hung in the air like a punishment. Miami's warmth bled through the apartment, but it didn't touch him. He was stuck. Trapped and most especially humiliated. He had spent the last 48 hours tearing through Julian's belongings, his drawers and boxes, looking for a thread, any thread that could lead him back. Old letters. Postcards. Photos of men. Too many men. Gay couples smiling. Holding hands while others are kissing. He also stumbled on a picture that showed Julian at some pride parade, drenched in colour and joy. Brown nearly ripped it in half. "Sick," he muttered. "Fucking sick." He found browser history on his laptop. Porn. Gay porn. Submissive, degrading, happy. Brown gagged and was very irritated.
The man he was now, this body had belonged to everything he hated.
And now he was stuck living it. He grabbed the phone, Julian's phone, and started going through his contacts and phone book like a man digging up a grave. Names he didn't recognise. Men's names with hearts next to them.
Then, something stopped him.
Joshua Austin.
Saved five years ago. No messages. No photos. Just the name. The surname struck him. Austin. He knew that name; he knew Joshua Austin very well.
Joshua Austin, 24, TideWest senior intern at his company. Amira De Fernandez. Quiet. Smart. Too curious. Too soft.
Could it be the same guy? He couldn't tell. But if there was... that gave him leverage. He lowered the phone slowly, a smirk forming on his face. Pale skin bathed in the slanted sunlight pouring through the blinds, casting him in lines of gold and shadow. He walked towards the window, shirtless, lean chest rising and falling, veins twitching beneath unfamiliar skin. He hated everything about this. "You took my power," he whispered, "my name… my body." "So, I'll take your comfort. Your memories. Your fucking heart." His voice went low. Dark. Measured. "I'll make you regret waking up in my world, Julian Blackwood. And when I'm done, you'll beg to go back." The reflection smiled. But it wasn't kind.
Back at his office, Brown Caldwell's phone buzzed. A private number sent a message.
Text:
"You don't belong here."
His blood ran cold. He looked around the office to see whether someone was watching, and maybe they were. Every hallway window suddenly felt like an eye. "Miss Brooke, get Joshua Austin in my office immediately" He was getting the hang of being the rude boss just like the real Brown Caldwell.