Book Extract: The Unswitchable by Yoav Blum

Published December 12, 2025 | By Laura

I’m so excited to be welcoming Yoav Blum to Novel Kicks and the blog tour for his book, The Unswitchable.

A world where identity can be borrowed, traded, or escaped creates an instantly intriguing premise in The Unswitchable by Yoav Blum. The contrast between universal shapeshifting and one man’s inability to change forms the center of a story shaped by danger, secrecy, and shifting trust.

In a society where identity has become fluid and interchangeable, the idea of being permanently anchored to one body carries unexpected consequences. The Unswitchable imagines a world transformed by the Switch-Bracelet—technology that allows people to step into new forms for convenience, ambition, or escape. Amid this culture of effortless reinvention, one person’s inability to switch turns into a dangerous anomaly. When a dying stranger occupying a temporary body delivers a message tied to a part of his life he never understood, the fragile distance he keeps from the world collapses. Assassins with ever-changing faces quickly descend, hunting for something he carries without knowing. With no way to hide inside another body and no certainty about who is approaching him at any moment, he must navigate a maze built on deception, borrowed identities, and shifting allegiances. His unchanging self—once isolating—becomes the only reliable constant in a chase that forces him to confront the truth of why he alone remains unswitchable.

Yoav has shared an extract from The Unswitchable with us today. We hope you enjoy it.

(Content: Violence)

*****beginning of extract*****

She took a deep breath, her eyes cast down toward the glass of water in her hands. The light of the setting sun snuck through the open window behind her, painting the back of her right shoulder.

I looked at her, trying again to decide whether to believe her story.

She shuddered. The air in the room suddenly felt different, or perhaps I just imagined it. When she lifted her eyes toward me, I saw something that wasn’t there a moment earlier. Urgency, panic, maybe.

“Dan?” she asked.

The tone of her voice changed. It was the tone people use when they want to say something important, or when they’re suffering from amnesia and have no idea who you are. I wagered on the former.

She moved toward me, abruptly, stepping into the light of the setting sun.

“Dan?” she asked again.

I was about to say “Who else could I be?” when her head lurched forward, pulling her neck in its wake and then her entire body. Only after her body hit the floor did I realize the noise I’d heard half a second earlier was the whoosh of the bullet.

My eyes darted to the window, then to the floor. What the h…?

She lay there, a gaping hole in the back of her head, blood pouring from it. Such things aren’t supposed to happen to normative people. And yet, this was happening again.

I quickly surveyed the windows in the apartment building across the street. Laundry, an air conditioner, laundry, a missing window blind, a Snoopy sticker on the window of a child’s room. And then, him.

A black shirt, gray hair, a splendidly chiseled chin, and what looked like a long sniper’s rifle with a mounted sight. Our eyes met fleetingly, and then his face disappeared behind the gun. For a thousandth of a second, the frightened child in me wanted to stand and ask what the hell was going on, until the responsible adult in me ordered my body to the floor.

I threw myself down and heard two bullets streak overhead and crash into the wall opposite the window. I was panting, a bit hysterical. Apparently, I’m not a hero when someone’s shooting at me. Her leg rested motionless, not far from my face. A minute ago, I doubted her story. Now it was clear that something in the story was even truer than she imagined.

The bullets stopped. He either left or was waiting patiently for me to stand.

I crawled to the side, very slowly, and I hyperventilated, like any skilled neurotic. At some point, I may have let out a small yelp of fear instead of exhaling. Don’t judge me. You didn’t see the woman you love skewered by a bullet in the back of her head. (Okay, not love, loved. Or didn’t love. Let’s say “the woman you liked enough to date and establish expectations until suddenly it was over, damn it.”)

When I felt I’d moved far enough to the side, I raised my head a bit, slowly, looking for the window the shooter had fired from.

He was no longer there. His rifle was still lying on the windowsill, but he was gone. It occurred to me that if I could still see his rifle, then I hadn’t moved far enough aside. But I didn’t dwell on that.

I sprawled back onto the floor.

I hadn’t cleaned in three weeks, and a clump of dust and hair rolled in front of me, like tumbleweed in the empty streets of a Wild West ghost town just before a duel. It’s strange the things you notice, what you think about, in moments like these.

I turned onto my back and inhaled deeply. One breath. Another one. And one more.

My hands clenched into fists, my nails digging into my flesh. I suddenly realized I was angry.

Bastard. It’s not going to end this way.

I jumped to my feet.

In my study, on the top shelf, in a blue box, my pistol and two cartridges awaited. I didn’t go to the shooting range four times a year to lie on the floor like a snail when someone was shooting at me. But cowards have pistols too. And if you think about it, pistols are primarily for cowards.

I know the building across the street. It has two entrances. The main entrance faces the street, but the back entrance leads to a parking alley.

The stairway, three stairs at a time.

The responsible adult in me mumbled something about calling the police, but by the time I call, he’ll already disappear. Mr. Gray Hair doesn’t expect me to go after him. He thinks it’s over and that he just needs to disappear before the police arrive. That’s not going to happen. I’ll catch him in the alley.

I burst outside the building, breathing heavily. Great, now I get winded from going down the stairs too. Pathetic.

I clutched the pistol tightly in my right hand. My grip was so taut that I wondered – in an unforgivable digression from the vengeful mood that simmered inside me – whether I’d ever be able to remove it from my hand. I ran toward the alley. My hands were sweating, rage seethed from the depths of my soul. She’s finally here for me, and you shoot her?

When I reached the alley, I slowed down.

Is he still here? Did I miss him?

No, he was still here. In a blue Subaru, driving straight at me.

I stood ready. That stable stance where your feet are spread and hands stretched forward with the pistol, your nostrils flare, your lips clamp together, and your eyes narrow to firing slits. Both of his hands gripped the wheel, his eyes locked on mine.

He accelerated and aimed for me. If I painted his projected route on the blacktop, it would’ve passed directly between my legs. He wasn’t intending to go under me, of course.

Millions of dwarves raced back and forth in my mind, miniature calculators in their hands, pressing the buttons furiously. Speed, time, distance, speed, time, distance. He’s going to hit you. You don’t have enough time. Let’s look at this logically: In this situation, flooded with adrenaline, you’re not going to be very precise. A quick calculation of my chances made what I should do clear. The responsible adult in me grabbed the reins again, and I leaped to the side, crashed in a grunt of pain on the sidewalk, and saw the Subaru speed past.

We are not finished.

I stood up quickly, keeping an eye on the car.

I steadied myself. Hands forward, breathe properly, pull the trigger, don’t jerk it, squeeze it, barrel lined up with your eye, aim at the tires.

One shot. A second. A third.

Take a breath.

A fourth.

I looked up to see if I had hit the target.

Absolutely not. I probably wasn’t even close.

Yet the Subaru continued to accelerate, rode onto the sidewalk, and crashed straight into a wall. The thunderous impact of the crash shook the entire building. And the car exploded.

So I gave myself a little credit. Let’s assume my bullets broke his concentration.

But I haven’t started this story from the right spot.

Let’s start over.

*****end of extract*****

About Yoav Blum –

Yoav Blum is an author known for blending high-concept speculative ideas with gripping mystery, thriller, and philosophical depth.

His work explores extraordinary situations—time travel, body switching, orchestrated coincidences—while grounding them in questions of identity, perception, fate, and free will. Beneath each thriller or puzzle lies a reflection on what it means to be human.

His tone is introspective, suspenseful, and often playfully self-aware.

Learn more on his website, or connect via Facebook, Instagram, or X. You can also follow him on Goodreads.

The Unswitchable was released in November 2025. Click to buy on Amazon UK, Amazon US, Waterstones and Barnes & Noble.