WHO IS WHO?

Miles' POV

The demolition truck's engine roared to life — thunderous, furious, and blinding. The ground beneath my feet shook as the massive vehicle surged ahead. The others had all retreated, keeping well out of reach. The others except me.

I stood straight in front of the door, my cuffs locked around the doorknob. Sweat trickled down my face, my own heart pounding so fiercely it physically ached. My entire body shuddered with adrenaline, fear, and fury.

Was I going to do this?

Was I going to get smashed because some billionaire thought that being poor meant I was powerless?

I snatched a glance at my dad. He was pale and frail, huddled against a nurse, his face twisted with pain — but in his eyes, those worn-out old eyes, there seared a fire of pride. If he were well enough, I knew, he'd be standing here right next to me.

And then… the truck came closer.

And closer.

And closer.

I wanted to take a step back. Every strand of me cried out to take a step back.

But I couldn't.

Not now.

If this was the way I was going out — then so be it.

And then—like a light being switched on—he showed up.

Graham Wilson.

Jumping out of his high-class car, the one he'd been examining everything from like a damn king, racing towards me like a storm in a suit.

"Are you a lunatic?!" he yelled, voice rough and cutting like glass.

"Are you freaking out? Don't you see that thing's headed straight for us?! It's only a couple of meters off now! You get outta here and be gone with yourself!"

I didn't blink. I just stared at him straight in the face — those numbingly beautiful, pale blue eyes. Too bad that so beautiful a person had to end up such a world-class, self-absorbed dumbshit.

I took a breath.

You're not the boss of me," I declared firmly, loud enough for everyone to hear.

"And just because you happen to be a millionaire doesn't mean you can take what doesn't belong to you."

He chuckled, like I'd just told him his car was hot pink.

"It doesn't belong to me? Do you get it? This is my property. Why engage in a battle you have no chance of winning?

I grinned — a sour, exhausted grin.

"Because maybe poor people… we have that kind of will."

He glared. I caught a nerve quiver in his jaw, his fury building. He spun toward the demolition truck, dangerously close, perhaps a dozen steps away.

"HALT DEMOLITION!"

He bellowed the command through a high-tech speakerpiece in his ear.

There was a moment of pause. The truck didn't stop.

"Boss," the driver crackled over the loudspeaker, frightened.

"The brakes… I can't stop it — the brakes are out of order!"

Graham's eyes were stunned.

"I said stop the bloody truck!"

But it was too late — the driver jumped out, yelling, thudding the ground hard.

The truck bore down.

I pulled at the chain on my wrist, frightened now, tugging frantically.

"Shit—!"

"You fool, irresponsible numbskull!" Graham swore, twisting my wrist suddenly, trying to get me free.

And then--

The lights turned white.

An ear-shattering smash.

Wood and glass and metal exploding like a bomb that had gone off.

The truck smashed into the front of the building, splintering the door and hitting both of us. Blinding, searing pain — and nothing after that.

I don't know how long I was out, but suddenly there was a ceiling. A clean, white ceiling with a circular light fixture hovering directly above my head. The world was blurry initially. My head was laden, mouth as dry as sandpaper. There was a high-pitched, repetitive beeping sound somewhere in the distance — the sort you only hear in hospitals.

Hospitals.

My eyes snapped open again and this time, things kind of focused. The ceiling remained white. The room remained tidy. A faint whine of machines in the background. A light antiseptic scent hanging in the air.

I tried to move, but my body was. off. Stiff. Heavy. Like it didn't even belong to me.

I glared.

Wait.

Wait.

Something was not right.

I looked down at my hand. Or what I thought was my hand.

It wasn't mine.

It was too pale, too big, too smooth and had an expensive watch that I'd never worn in my entire life. My eyes traveled up the arm. The hospital gown was too loose in places, too tight in others.

Fear tickled my skin.

The door opened.

A nurse stepped in, staring at something in her hand, and then she looked up. Her eyes widened.

"God," she gasped. "Mr. Graham… Mr. Graham woke up!"

I blinked at her, confused.

Mr. Graham?

She sped to the hallway, with her head popped out.

"Doctor! Mr. Graham has woken up!"

I grunted, trying to sit up. My body rebelled, muscles weak, stiff, sore.

What the f*** was she saying?

I turned my head to the side, groaning softly as my neck protested. And then I saw him.

Me.

In the bed next to mine.

My face. Pale, bruised, resting against the pillow. Monitors attached. I recognized that face like the back of my hand. It was me.

But… how…

I gritted my brain, trying to remember.

The protest. The truck. The chain. Graham yelling. The brakes failing. The smash. The blinding lights.

What happened next?

I extended my hand -- slow, wobbly -- to my face. My jawline was more defined. The stubble under my fingertips was too soft, My skin was smoother.

The nurse hurried back into the room with a doctor and another nurse.

"He's awake. Mr. Graham Wilson is awake."

They clustered around me.

Mr. Graham, can you hear me?" the doctor asked, his voice strained but controlled.

I attempted to open my mouth, and my voice came out raw, lower than I could have ever recalled.

"I'm… I'm not…. "

I cut myself off. What the fuck was happening?

"Take it easy, sir," the nurse said, her hand on my shoulder. "You've been through a lot. Don't try to talk too quickly.".

Another commotion — this one from the bed to my left.

My body groaned.

His eyes flicked open, his face — my face — creasing in shock.

"He's awake too!" the nurse exclaimed.

The doctor inserted himself between us.

"Unbelievable. They're both awake. After a month. A miracle."

“Mr Kaden? Mr Kaden can you hear me ?”

The doctor asked pointing a flash light at my body, it seemed confused.

A month?

A month?!

I felt a shiver running down my spine.

The physician was getting vitals, shining a light into both our eyes. I saw myself 

staring at me with growing bewilderment. My brows furrowed.

The nurses whispered to each other.

"We need to notify their families. Both of them waking up simultaneously… it's incredible."

I overheard pieces of their chatter as they tweaked our IVs and watched the machines.

At last, after what felt like an eternity, they left.

It was quiet.

Me and… me.

I sat up, grunting because my body ached in areas I didn't even realize I had. I turned to look at him. He was sitting up too, stiffly wriggling.

We glared at one another.

Then away.

Then back again.

I could see it in his eyes. The same confusion, disbelief, fear.

"What… the fuck," I growled.

His eyes went wide. He grabbed at his throat. My throat.

He stared at his hands.

What—" he started.

His voice. My voice.

I was looking at him. At my face. How pale it appeared, just like I felt inside.

I looked down at myself again. The legs. So long. The gown. The hands. The ridiculous costly watch.

No way.

I grabbed the bedside mirror, trembling in my hands. I gazed at it.

Graham Wilson stared at me with a mirror's empty eyes.

I dropped the mirror.

He was doing the same, studying his own face in the glinting steel light of machinery on the ground. His face — my face — twisted into shock.

"This is impossible," I breathed.

He nodded, pale-faced. "I'm… you."

He broke into a hoarse voice. "And I'm you.".