Residue of a Former Occupant

One night to be someone else. That's what the ticket promised. But when the sun rose, the carnival was gone, and Julian was still wearing a stranger's skin, a stranger's life, and a stranger's enemies. Now he has to piece together a life he never lived, just to survive the day.

He stumbled out of bed, his legs unsteady. Not his legs. They were too long, corded with muscle he hadn't earned. He lurched into the small, grimy bathroom and flicked on the light. A stranger stared back from the mirror.

The man in the reflection had dark, hollow eyes, a three-day stubble, and a small, jagged scar through his left eyebrow. Julian raised his right hand; the stranger copied the movement. He touched his face. The stranger’s face. It was real. The carnival. The tent with the swirling purple sign: *One Ticket, A New You. For A Night.* It had seemed like a lark, a novel escape from his own miserable, debt-ridden life. He remembered handing over the ticket, a bright orange slip of paper. A woman with silver eyes had smiled. Then a feeling of vertigo, a sensation like falling up.

He had woken up here. In this body. And the carnival, he knew with a sickening certainty, was gone.

He stripped off the t-shirt he was wearing. The stranger's torso was a roadmap of faded tattoos—a raven in flight on his chest, a coil of thorny vines around his bicep. Julian's own body had been a blank canvas, pale and unmarked. This felt like a violation, like reading someone else's diary.

His—this body's—knuckles were split and bruised. The ribs on his right side were a violent shade of purple. A fighter's body. Julian was an accountant who got winded walking up a flight of stairs.

He had to find his own body. The thought was absurd. Where would he even start? Was someone else waking up in his flat, confused by the overdue bills and the dying houseplant?

Back in the main room, he searched for clues. A wallet on the bedside table contained a driver's licence. The name was Corey Black. The photo matched the face in the mirror. There were two hundred pounds in cash and a single, strange-looking token, a heavy iron coin stamped with a labyrinth.

He saw a small safe in the bottom of a wardrobe. He stared at it, and without thinking, his fingers went to the dial. *27 Right. 14 Left. 32 Right.* The combination came to him as easily as breathing. Muscle memory. Corey's memory. The click of the tumblers was deafening in the quiet flat.

Inside was a handgun, heavy and cold, and a small, leather-bound notebook. He opened the book. It was filled with a list of names, addresses, and dates. Next to some of the names were single-word annotations: 'Paid', 'Pending', 'Fled'. A ledger of a very different kind than the ones Julian was used to.

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### The Call and the Callers

He was in a criminal's body. A debt collector, a heavy, a thug. The reality of it made him want to vomit. This wasn't just a temporary escape; it was a hostile takeover. He had been press-ganged into another man's war.

As if on cue, a mobile phone on the counter began to buzz, its vibration aggressive against the formica. He stared at it, his heart hammering. If he answered it, he was accepting this reality. If he didn't, what would happen? Would he be erasing any chance of finding his way back?

He picked it up. An unknown number. He swiped to answer, his thumb clumsy.

"Yeah?" The voice that came out of his mouth was not his own. It was a low, gravelly thing. Corey's voice.

"Where have you been?" The voice on the other end was distorted, synthesized. "You have the package?"

Julian’s mind raced. Package? The gun? The notebook? He said nothing.

"Don't go silent on me, Corey," the voice hissed. "You know the deal. The exchange is tonight. Usual place. Don't be late. And don't get any funny ideas. We know what you did."

The line went dead. Julian stood frozen, the phone clutched in his hand. What had Corey done? What 'package' did he supposedly have? This was a nightmare spiralling out of his control at incredible speed.

He had to get out. Run. Disappear. But where could he go? He was wearing a wanted man's face.

There was a sharp, loud knock at the door. Two distinct raps, like a gavel.

Julian froze, every muscle tensing. He wasn't expecting anyone. Corey, apparently, was. He tiptoed to the door, his new body moving with a stealth that surprised him. He peered through the peephole. The distorted lens showed two broad-shouldered men in ill-fitting suits. They looked like bulldogs, all neck and menace. They were not the police. They were not friendly.

He held his breath. Maybe they would think no one was home. He began to back away slowly from the door.

Then one of the men leaned in close to the peephole, his eye a huge, watery orb. His voice was muffled but clear through the wood.