A stranger's skin

Max's POV

I gasped and woke up from my sleep, i sat upright. I looked at my surroundings and it was different. I was not on my living room floor where i was covered in blood, everything was gone and different.

I was on a massive king sized bed. The floor to ceiling windows framed a glittering city skyline. The air smelled different, like an expensive cologne. I threw the blanket that covered my body and froze. I was looking different. My legs were longer, my hands were bigger.

I quickly stood up and stumbled to the mirror. I did not see my face staring back to me. Instead, a man was staring back at me. I studied his face with the kind of intensity i had once reserved for a late night cramming before exams.

He has high cheekbones but not too high, a round face, button nose, a mole under his left eyes just like mine, black hair, gray eyes. He looked cute for a guy. He would easily pass off as a male and female. His body was average height. 

But i felt something, he might try to be storng all the time but strength has it own shadows. Under the surface of his face, i saw exhaustion etched in faint lines around his eyes. A weight carried for years, heavy and unrelenting. The kind of weight that does not come from lack of sleep or over working but from life itself pressing down, day by day.

I touched the mirror, expecting the reflection of the stranger to dissolve and change into my own face, But it did not, The stranger remained looking back at me. I tried pinching myself maybe i was dreaming biy no, i felt the pain on my hand. This was real. My cheast tightened, Whose life is this?

I decided to look around if i could find something, anything about this man. The room itself gave me my first answers.

Expensive, but impersonal. The walls were bare save for abstract paintings in muted tones, the kind of art people buy because they can, not because they love it. A sleek desk stood in the corner, its surface meticulously clean. On it, a framed photograph:

A family portrait.

The man, my reflection, stood stiffly at the edge, his suit perfect, his posture rigid. Beside him, a man and woman who could only be his parents. Their expressions weren’t warm. They weren’t even neutral. They looked… disappointed.

Even in a photograph, their eyes seemed to judge.

I ran my thumb across the frame, tracing the young man’s face. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-one there, but the weight in his eyes was already present.

A knock at the door startled me.

"Sir? The voice was the same as before, male, respectful, hesitant."The car is ready for your meeting."

Meeting.

I had no idea who I was supposed to meet, or where, or why. But I forced calm into my voice. "Give me ten minutes."

"Yes, Mr. Blackwell."

The name slammed into me like a fist.

Blackwell.

So that was his name. My name now.

I dressed in the suit laid out across the chair. It fit perfectly, as if tailored to skin. As I fastened the cuffs, I caught sight of the hands again, scarred knuckles, calloused palms. This was a man who knew both boardrooms and brawls. I saw a wallet by the mirror and opened it. I saw different credits cards there. I pulled out his ID card and saw his name. His name was also Max, i was surprised we had the same name. Everything was getting weirder and weirder.

The driver, a middle-aged man with graying hair, waited outside the penthouse door. He inclined his head as I approached. "Morning, sir." 

I nodded, forcing composure, and followed him to the sleek black car waiting in the underground garage.

The city unfurled around us as we drove. Skyscrapers rose like jagged teeth, neon signs flickered against gray skies. People hurried along sidewalks, none of them sparing a glance at the tinted windows of the car gliding past.

"Agenda today, sir," the driver said. "Board meeting at nine. Lunch with the mayor at one. Dinner with your parents at eight."

The last one made my stomach clench.

"Parents? I asked carefully.

"Yes, sir. They confirmed last night. Your father said he expects punctuality."

Expectations. Demands. Nothing of warmth.

I leaned back against the leather seat, staring out at the blur of the city. Whoever this man was, he had climbed to the top. Wealth. Power. Influence. But it wasn’t for himself. It was for them.

For parents who, judging by the photo, would never be satisfied.

The boardroom smelled of polished wood and faint cologne. Ten men and women sat around the table, their suits crisp, their eyes sharp. They looked at me, Mr. Blackwell, with a mixture of respect and unease.

"Mr. Blackwell," one began, "we have prepared the quarterly report—"

I nodded, pretending familiarity, though every word washed over me like static. Net profits, expansion strategies, shareholder satisfaction. They were speaking his life, not mine.

But as I listened, fragments began to form. This wasn’t inherited wealth. This wasn’t a trust fund empire.

This company had been built from the ground up. By him. By me.

The whispers confirmed it, stories of late nights in garages, of failed prototypes, of deals made with sweat and blood.

And always, in the background, his father’s shadow. "He only did it to earn approval," someone muttered when they thought I couldn’t hear.

Approval that never came.

When the meeting ended, I locked myself in the office. Papers littered the desk, contracts, reports, letters.

One letter caught my eye. The handwriting was sharp, almost cutting.

You are a disappointment. No matter what you build, it will never undo your failures.

Signed: Father.

I gripped the letter until the paper crumpled.

This man, this body, had clawed his way to power, built an empire from nothing, and still it wasn’t enough.

A hollow life. A loveless family.

And now it was mine.

I actually felt sorry for him.

That night, the dinner loomed.

The restaurant was pristine, the kind of place where even the waiters walked like royalty. My parents, his parents, were already seated.

His mother sipped wine, her posture elegant, her eyes distant. His father sat stiff, his gaze heavy with disapproval before I’d even spoken.

"You are late," the older man said.

"I was not aware," I answered evenly.

"You should always be aware," he snapped.

The rest of the dinner was worse. They criticized the company’s direction, dismissed the achievements I hadn’t even known about an hour ago, compared me to people I’d never met. Not once did they ask how I was. Not once did they smile.

By the end, I wanted to walk out. But I didn’t.

Because as much as I loathed them, I realized something.

This body had been forged in rejection, in striving for impossible approval. It had been honed in fire.

And fire was exactly what I needed.

As the car drove me home, I stared out at the city lights, my reflection a stranger in the tinted glass.

My old life had been stolen by people I trusted.

This new one had been crushed beneath people who never cared.

Both deserved justice.

I closed my eyes, letting the rage settle into something colder. Something sharper.

If fate had given me this man’s life, then I would wield it like a blade.

Alex. Emily.

I was coming. I would make all of them pay for what they did to me. I will have my revenge and no one can stop me.