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The grand hall of our villa was filled with the warm light of the setting sun, streaming through the tall arched windows. Lavender reflections stretched across the expensive carpets, weaving twilight shades into their patterns, while the crystal chandelier caught the glow, scattering flickering highlights on the walls. The dark wood furniture, adorned with exquisite carvings, was a legacy of my family, passed down through generations. I remember running through this hall as a child, hiding behind the heavy curtains, feeling the cold marble floor under my bare feet. But now, I stood motionless, leaning over an antique lacquered black box, adorned with golden patterns.
My name is Alex. Alex von Hoffmann, born twenty-two years ago with a silver spoon in my mouth. My lineage traces back to an old aristocratic line, and though titles don’t mean much these days, we still have privilege and wealth. I never gave much thought to family heirlooms, but this box was special. Inside it lay a medallion—ancient, with a ruby at its center, intricate patterns carved into its golden frame. I had seen it a few times before, knowing it was just one of many expensive trinkets in our family’s possession. But not long ago, my late grandfather whispered something to me, barely audible, just before he left this world behind.
"Touch it with your pinky, think of the one you wish to switch bodies with, and say: Virtus in sanguine…" — he gasped, his words broken by labored, raspy breaths, before his final exhale melted into silence.
At first, I was convinced it was nothing more than the delirious ramblings of a dying man, already staring into the light at the end of the tunnel. But when I first tested its power, I realized my grandfather hadn’t lied. The medallion worked exactly as he said: a touch with the pinky, a focused thought on a person, a whisper of the ancient words—and the world turned upside down.
I had already used it. A few times. At first, cautiously—on strangers, random people encountered in safe conditions. Each return to my own body was accompanied by a strange sensation: a slight dizziness, but most importantly—complete serenity from the person who had taken my place. But the most crucial part—none of them remembered I had ever been inside them. They lived, breathed, moved, convinced that everything I did in their bodies had been their own actions. I could do whatever I wanted, and no one would ever know.
And for obvious reasons, I never told anyone about it. Not even my parents. I don’t know why my grandfather left this secret to me instead of his own son, but I suppose the old man saw something more in me. And I think he made the right choice.
But today, I was unbearably bored, and I smirked as I gazed at the antique box. I could feel the corners of my lips curling up—slowly, lazily, in anticipation. A sharp, unpleasant pang shot through my heart—brief, cold, like a needle under my ribs. I tensed but quickly brushed off the sensation. It had been happening lately, but I wasn’t about to pay attention to minor inconveniences.
The medallion.
My precious little toy, capable of turning other people's lives into a theater where I was both the director and the sole audience. Today, I had something special in mind. Random people on the street had become dull—their lives too ordinary, the swaps too monotonous. But someone close, someone within my own surroundings… Now, that would be much more interesting.
Slowly, I opened the box, and in the dim evening light, the ruby in the medallion ignited with a warm, fiery glow. As always, it called to me, pulled me in, lured me—and I didn’t resist.
Marie.
A Latin maid who had been working in our house for three years now. Petite, slender, with dark hair always pulled into a tight bun and keen brown eyes, she carried herself quietly, respectfully, yet there was a hidden pride in her, a stubborn resilience that irritated me. She was obedient, but not servile. She followed orders, but never groveled.
That amused me.
And today, I was going to play a little trick on her. Just a little.
She was cleaning downstairs—I could hear the floor creaking under her steps. I sank into the chair, placed the box on a nearby table, and stretched my hand to the side, letting my pinky lazily brush against the medallion. In my mind, I pictured her face, her slender hands, the familiar faint scent of citrus soap.
– Virtus in sanguine…