Free Half-Past Dawn by Richard Doetsch

In spite of his large size and long black hair, he could lose himself in any environment, in any crowd, no matter where he was on earth. While he prided himself on his refined appearance and despite the notoriety he had gained the world over, his face was not known except to a handful of people. No photo or video existed of him—he was spoken of as myth, with descriptions ranging widely, from having been born on five different continents to possessing the appearance of varying ethnicities. Like a chameleon, he could adapt to any environment. The mix of clothing within the armoire would shape his appearance as everything from a day laborer to a homeless man of the street to an investment banker.
    In the blue-tiled bathroom, he meticulously laid out his shaving kit—an old-fashioned single-blade razor, a soft camel-hair shaving brush, a heavy bar of Rhist soap—placing them on the washcloth on the counter. He filled the sink with scalding water, dipped the brush and the bar of soap in, and rubbed them together, building up a frothing lather. With the attention of an artist, he shaved his skin smooth, his dark eyes staring in the mirror as he examined his skin, ensuring that he hadn’t missed a spot. His face was strong, hard-lined, its tone just above a mild tan. Some may have called it the color of weak tea, a color found in many races of men: dark-skinned Caucasian, Mediterranean, Asian, South American.
    He turned on the shower, allowing the steam to build, to fill the air with mist, fogging the mirror so he could avoid seeing his reflection as he removed his T-shirt.
    While his face was pure, his body was marred. Jagged flesh, raised and ghostly white, had restrung itself along his left side, and his back was littered with crisscross striations, worn like a badge of honor for surviving torture during capture. Scars along the right side of his torso leaked down his body like melted wax, pouring down from the base of his neck, repulsing him at every glance while terrifying anyone who cast their eyes on it. The burns robbed his tan flesh of color, the grafted skin, grotesquely taut over his large muscles, stretching in odd folding shapes when his body flexed or grew taut. The pain of the countless surgeries had lasted for months, an agony forever etched in his mind.
    Yet somehow, despite all of the brutality he had endured, his face had remained without blemish. It never exposed what lay beneath the designer suits he had grown fond of wearing, his damaged body concealed like the violence in his heart.
    D RESSED IN A black Armani suit, starched white shirt, and pale blue silk tie, Cristos inspected himself in the mirror. He picked up two EpiPens off the counter and slipped them into his breast pocket. He exited the bedroom and entered the small office-like sitting room. His jet-black hair was pulled tight in a ponytail, his fingers were perfectly manicured, and a gold watch wrapped his left wrist. With the appearance of a refined Wall Street executive, he took a seat at a large partners’ desk. He glanced at the long black box that sat on the table in the corner, at the number 7138 along the side, but quickly directed his attention to the array of monitors before him. He read the first; the bank accounts in Sri Lanka, Switzerland, and Prague reflected balances in excess of fifty million dollars each. Each account was under the ownership of an elaborate string of shell companies,each legitimate in its own right, with a diversity of holdings in real estate, textiles, and manufacturing.
    The second and third monitors reflected his latest intel, dossiers, and photos pertaining to his various employees and contracts.
    Cristos’s computer system was secure, with an encryption system that would be the envy of any government. But there were certain secrets for which he reserved other methods.
    Unlike much of society, governments, and institutions, he did not trust his most important information to a silicon chip. He was taught at