Part Two: Making the Billionaire Disappear
The man in the bedroom mirror still looked wealthy.
His silver hair was neatly combed. His shirt had been made by hand. Even his posture, weakened by illness, carried the confidence of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
No one would reveal their true nature to that man.
They would hold doors for him, laugh at his jokes, and pretend to care about his opinions because they knew his name.
If I wanted honesty, I had to remove everything that inspired politeness.
I picked up a pair of scissors.
“The billionaire must disappear,” I murmured, “before the truth can reveal itself.”
I cut my hair unevenly until it stuck out in rough, silver clumps. I attached an unkempt artificial beard to my face and rubbed dark makeup into the lines around my eyes.
From an old storage room, I found torn trousers, worn shoes, and a heavy coat that smelled of damp cardboard.
Then, to make the disguise more convincing, I poured a small amount of spoiled milk down the front.
The odor was immediate and terrible.
Underneath it, however, I had forgotten—or perhaps deliberately chosen not—to remove my usual cologne. The faint trace of luxury beneath the sour smell amused me.
It reminded me that appearances could hide almost anything.
When I faced the mirror again, the businessman was gone.
In his place stood a frail, unwashed old man whom most people would avoid before he had the chance to speak.
I leaned heavily on an old wooden cane and left the mansion through the service entrance.
My driver had been instructed not to follow.
For once, I wanted to enter my own world without protection.
