1

Dusk tinted the windows of the reception room a golden hue, bathing the interior in a warm, comforting glow. Laughter and murmurs rose in waves, carried by the champagne and the hushed conversations of the elite. At the other end of the room, Vincent Delacroix, the center of all eyes, strolled with natural ease, an affable smile plastered on his lips. He shook hands, exchanged courtesy words, while carefully controlling each interaction. This man was much more than just a billionaire. He embodied power. Every move he made seemed calculated, every smile a tool to strengthen his hold on his empire.

He was dressed in his tailored black suit, a gold watch hanging on his wrist, a symbol of his success. Nothing escaped him, neither in the business world nor in this evening. His empire touched everything – real estate, cutting-edge technology, fashion. There was not a single sector where he had not left his mark. His employees respected him, his partners admired him, and his enemies... they feared him.

Vincent liked this position of strength. It gave him a feeling of invulnerability. As he raised his glass of champagne to his lips, he caught the eye of his daughter, Camille, who, at the other end of the room, was chatting with foreign investors. His gaze rested on her for a moment, a silent pride crossing his features. Camille was his heir, his protégé. One day, she would take back the reins of her empire. But not yet. Not while he still had so much to accomplish.

As Vincent returned to his thoughts, a slight unease suddenly tightened in his chest. He frowned, trying to understand the feeling. He stood up, putting a hand to his heart. The discomfort grew, becoming more intense, and his legs weakened slightly beneath him. The room around him suddenly seemed so noisy, the laughter and conversations a distant echo. The pain became unbearable.

He wanted to call for help, but his words were lost in the surrounding noise. A dizziness overtook him, and before he could take another step, his body gave way. Vincent Delacroix, the man who seemed unshakeable, collapsed to the ground. The guests around him recoiled, screams of panic erupted, and within seconds, the evening that celebrated power and success was reduced to a chaos of fear.

"Monsieur Delacroix!" Mr. Delacroix! » a woman screamed as she rushed to his side, but her body remained motionless, her face pale. In an instant, life had deserted his eyes.

At the other end of the city, in a neglected suburb where the lights of luxury did not shine, Adrien Lefèvre was returning home, his steps dragging, his thoughts muddled by the monotonous day he had just spent. The steady sound of his shoes on the worn pavement was the only sound that accompanied him. One street after another, the same dilapidated facades, the same tired faces. His daily life was nothing glorious, far from the opulence of the city center.

Adrien was no one important. He worked on the assembly line in a factory, his life organized like clockwork, without surprises or brilliance. The bills were piling up, his fridge was half empty, and hope for a better future was fading with time. Yet something inside him refused to give in completely. He kept this little spark deep inside him, this conviction that he deserved more than the dull life he led.

As he approached his small apartment, a flickering light caught his attention from inside the nearby bar. The television screens there were showing a special news bulletin, and the images he saw through the window made him stop in his tracks. A familiar face appeared in close-up. His face. No, not quite... It was that of Vincent Delacroix, this famous businessman who everyone was talking about.

Adrien observed the screen with an almost morbid fascination. The headlines flashed by: "Vincent Delacroix dies suddenly during a charity gala. » Journalists were already speculating about the cause, while images showed shocked guests and medical teams milling around the businessman's body. A shiver ran down Adrien's spine. He turned away from the window, but his heart was beating wildly.

He had already heard people say that he looked like Vincent Delacroix. On public transport, sometimes in the street, this comparison recurred. But until this moment, it had never become so real. Watching him on television, this striking resemblance became almost frightening. Adrien shook his head to get rid of the idea. He was just a simple worker. Vincent was a man of power, out of reach, almost unreal. However, a seed had just been planted in his mind.

Finally returning home, Adrien put his things in a corner, but couldn't help but think about what he had just seen. The image of Vincent's inert body kept coming back to his mind. If he was dead... what would happen next? Adrien's thoughts were racing, confused. He turned on the radio for some noise in the background, hoping to silence his thoughts, but that was all the talk on every channel. The death of Vincent Delacroix had just shaken the country.

Without really understanding why, Adrien indulged in a strange mental game. What if...what if he could take her place? After all, their resemblance was so striking. No one could really know. He shook his head, dismissing the idea as madness. And yet, this thought, once sown, refused to disappear. The possibility of another life, of an escape from his current condition, invaded him like an irresistible temptation.

That night he couldn't sleep. The image of Vincent, lying on that shiny floor, was etched in his mind. One life had just ended, but another, his own, suddenly seemed full of possibilities.

Adrien stood in front of the mirror in his small bathroom, his arms resting on the chipped sink, his gaze lost in his own features. He carefully observed every line of his face, every shadow, every contour, looking for what made him an ordinary man, a worker among many others. However, something had struck him since the day before, since he had seen the face of Vincent Delacroix on television, lying inert. This face...their face. It was as if he were looking at himself, but in a more elegant, more assured, richer version. He and Vincent were almost identical. The difference lay in what life had given them – to one, an empire, to the other, a life of misery.

He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it slightly. This idea, as crazy as it was, continued to play inside him like a song that you can't forget. *What if I could be him, even for a moment?* Adrien closed his eyes, imagining what that could be. Luxury cars, trips to exotic places, deals that happen with a snap of the fingers, the respect and fear of others. Everything he'd never had, everything he'd secretly dreamed of, even though he'd never admit it. But the dream, as brilliant as it was, carried with it shadows. What would happen if someone found out? And how do you enter this world without everything immediately falling apart?

Adrien let out a sigh, shaking his head to chase away these absurd thoughts. Yet he couldn't get rid of it. *No*, he told himself. *I have to see, understand what this life really is before launching myself into anything.* The idea of getting closer to Vincent's world became almost an obsession, a necessity to know if this resemblance could be useful to him.

This reflection accompanied him throughout the following day. Sitting at his post in the factory, surrounded by the deafening noise of the machines, his thoughts were detached from his monotonous daily life. He found himself imagining how Vincent would behave in such a place, how he would walk with confidence, how the workers around him would look at him, respectful and envious. The contrast between their lives was striking. Adrien wanted to know more, he wanted to understand this world to which he had, in one way or another, been connected by a strange coincidence.