A Robbery

Beta returned to the warehouse and, under the dim lights, faced the mirror, meticulously removing all traces of disguise.

He slowly peeled off the meticulously crafted disguise mask from his face, tossing the headgear into a plastic bucket filled with a potent solvent. Then, he threw the realistic facial model in as well. White foam immediately bubbled up in the plastic bucket, accompanied by a piercing "hissing" sound as the props that had once perfectly shaped the "Golmingo" persona began to dissolve.

Beta watched them gradually melt into an unrecognizable residue. From this moment on, the Mexican's identity would vanish from the world forever.

He continued to clean the remnants of his disguise: removing the transparent dental aligners that altered his facial structure, and carefully using a special solvent to clear the residual adhesive from his face. These stubborn gel-like substances were peeled off piece by piece, like shedding dead skin. Finally, he put on a hat to cover his hair, which had been styled with hairspray.

Beta took out a pair of gloves from his pocket and began wiping down every surface in the warehouse that might hold fingerprints with disinfectant wipes: the rolling door switch, the light switch, the chair armrests, the cabinet surfaces. After wiping, he swept the dust from the floor and sprinkled it evenly over these areas, creating the illusion that the place had been unused for a long time.

All the materials from the cabinets were packed into collection boxes and loaded into the trunk of the Cadillac. Although a bomb could have erased all traces faster, the commotion would have been too great, not fitting his usual low-key style.

Standing at the warehouse entrance, Beta took one last look around the soon-to-be-abandoned space. Soon, it would be auctioned off for unpaid rent, and those eager for "warehouse treasures" would descend like vultures, clearing out everything and cutting off any possible leads.

He knew that the operation about to take place in Paris was destined to be like a bucket of gasoline poured onto the already overwhelmed security departments of European countries, igniting a massive explosion across the continent. When they went madly searching for him, these pre-emptively cleared traces would protect his identity and safety to the greatest extent possible.

After dealing with the materials in the trunk, Beta drove the Cadillac back to the villa district as the sky began to show the first light of dawn.

New York in the early morning hours presented a unique urban rhythm, with early risers starting their day's work while night owls were still asleep.

The sounds of sirens, rising and falling, pierced the pre-dawn silence, clearly audible from three blocks away.

As the Cadillac slowly drove into the villa district, Beta keenly sensed something was wrong.

In front of the iconic pale blue villa, the usually closed wrought-iron gate was wide open, and the garage door was abnormally raised. Even more alarming was the absence of the Ford Mustang from the garage, with shards of glass reflecting the morning light scattered on the ground.

Beta pulled the Cadillac over and parked it, shut off the engine, and drew the Glock from his waist.

He silently pushed open the car door and closed it gently, approaching the villa with his gun held in both hands. The dewy lawn beneath his feet made no sound. His taut nerves magnified every detail: the pried-open lock, the crooked curtains, and the faint, unfamiliar scent in the air.

Beta moved silently; the entire villa was deathly quiet.

He carefully bypassed the scarred solid wood display cabinet in the living room. John Wick, clutching his lifeless Pit Bull, sat like a petrified statue before the stairs leading to the second floor, frozen in a single point amidst the surrounding chaos.

Beta slowly lowered his gun.

On the walls, the wallpaper had been roughly torn, and the paintings hung precariously, their canvases cut like tattered butterfly wings in the wind, clinging askew to their frames.

The glass in a picture frame had been smashed, and a bloody footprint on Helen's photo had the tread pattern perfectly covering her gentle smile.

In the living room, the glass coffee table had exploded, spilling fragments of varying sizes and sharp edges across the carpet. More shards had scattered further, casting tiny, sharp glints of light under the sun.

In the open-plan kitchen, cookware had been violently overturned, thrown, and crushed, scattered everywhere. Stainless steel pots were twisted and deformed, cabinet doors hung wide open, and ingredients and seasonings were spilled and mixed.

Most striking was Helen's cherished set of glass tableware. The crystal-clear cups and bowls were all shattered, their broken remains splattered across the countertops and floor. Only one glass bowl, half intact, lay tilted in the folds of the shag carpet, its inner surface reflecting the ceiling like an eye.

The Häagen-Dazs ice cream from the previous day, unfinished, had been stomped and splattered everywhere. The milky white, viscous cream, mixed with chocolate and vanilla sauce, had spread out radially, dragging long, semi-congealed, nauseating stains across the dark solid wood floor.

Beta's initial shock and disbelief sank into his eyes, replaced by a deep-sea silence.

He tilted his head slightly, the muscles in his neck bulging. His gaze fixed on the messy pile of glass shards on the kitchen floor, reflecting the bleak morning light. He meticulously confirmed the shape and size of each fragment, and the perfect whole they had once formed.

In his eyes, anger churned. Not a hollow flame, but a heavy, viscous liquid, silently filling every crevice of his being.

That set of glass tableware was a gift from him to Helen. She was healthy then, always smiling. Those dishes were her favorites.

Vanilla ice cream on a summer day; freshly baked, still hot bread slices; fresh greens coated in salad dressing; and the chiffon cake Helen had lovingly baked for him, with its slightly imperfect, charmingly burnt edges...

The tastes, textures, and sounds of those memories were now brutally cut and crushed by those sharp fragments.

Beta walked over to the half-broken glass bowl.

As he bent down, his back remained straight. When his fingers touched the cold, smooth curve, there was no grief, no anger on his face, only an absolute, vacuum-like blankness. All emotion had been poured into the boiling, about-to-erupt viscous feeling.

Beta straightened up, slowly raising the half-remaining glass bowl and aiming it towards the morning light filtering through the window.

Sunlight refracted through the crystal glass, casting ethereal colors and shifting light spots on his face.

He stared motionlessly, the broken prism turning in his fingers. In the silence of over ten seconds, the refracted light danced in his pupils, replaying those crushed, warm memories.

Finally, a suppressed cold laugh escaped his nostrils: "Heh!"