Lina (in Valentin's body)
They think I'm crazy.
Not surprising – I sound like it too.
But what do you say when you wake up in a body that isn't yours and see yourself tying your hair back?
I scream. I rage. I demand to be believed.
But I'm in cell 43.
And the man who now looks like me speaks calmly to the doctors.
He signs protocols.
He wears my voice like a tailored suit.
Two orderlies hold me down as I try again to hit the wall.
"Sedative," says one.
"Third time today," mutters the other.
I want to explain that I'm Lina Meissner. That this is a mistake. A fraud.
But all they see is a patient with violent behavior, hearing voices, believing he's someone else.
I feel the drug working.
Thick as oil, it creeps through my veins.
Then: darkness.
Valentin (in Lina's body)
Routine is camouflage.
I smile in the mirror.
It works. The smile is thin, professional, but the eyes look alert. Attentive.
No one notices anything.
I have access to terminals, personnel files, medication keys.
I have conversations with doctors – they trust me.
I can decide if someone is "controlled" or "observed."
It was the perfect exchange.
Lina had no one left. No family, no real friends here. She lived in a shadow.
An ideal host.
Ellen asks me about Valentin S.
I say he's unstable. Paranoid. Talks about foreign identities.
"Typical dissociative," she murmurs.
I nod.
But something inside me laughs.
Not out of mockery.
But out of satisfaction.
Because I'm no longer behind the glass.
I went through the glass.
And they didn't even notice.