France, Paris

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Paris, Charles de Gaulle Airport.

In the bustling arrivals hall, Beta strode through the noise, a black duffel bag in hand. Flight information alternated between French and English over the loudspeakers, the rolling of suitcase wheels mingling with the sound of hurried footsteps.

His gaze swept quickly across the crowd, not lingering, yet taking in every detail. The 16D lockers were not far, their gray-blue metal doors gleaming coldly under the fluorescent lights.

He walked directly towards them, his treated palm pulling open a locker door with a faint creak of the hinges. Inside lay a crumpled McDonald's wrapper, oil stains blooming into pale yellow marks on the paper bag.

Beta picked up the bag. Within it, a BMW key slid into his palm, cold and heavy.

He calmly slipped the key into his pocket and scanned his surroundings again. The surveillance cameras rotated lazily, travelers hurried past with their luggage, no one giving him a second glance. The face beneath the baseball cap and sunglasses was his own, but for now, he needed it to be different.

He turned and entered the narrow passage between two rows of lockers.

The lining of his camel-colored coat was lead gray; when flipped, it was like a different jacket. The baseball cap was stuffed into his backpack, revealing his dyed black short hair. The duffel bag's handles were retracted, turning it into a backpack worn on his back. He switched to a different pair of sunglasses, obscuring his eye color.

When he re-entered the crowd, even his gait had changed. His shoulders slumped slightly, his steps loose, like a local who had just disembarked. Ten seconds. From international traveler to local passerby, the transformation was complete within the blind spot of the cameras.

Beta walked along the wall, trash cans evenly spaced along the corridor.

His steps didn't falter as his fingers deftly disassembled the key fob, removed the remote battery, and casually tossed it into the nearest trash can. With a bit more force, the key chip was broken and silently slid into the next bin. Now, only a bare mechanical key remained in his hand.

In the parking lot, cars were neatly arranged, their paint gleaming metallically under the cold white lights.

Beta's gaze swept over each row, his steps steady, as if he were merely a local looking for his car. His footsteps echoed lightly in the spacious area. After rounding a few rows of parking spaces, he found the dark blue BMW parked quietly in a corner, a thin layer of dust settled on its body. This was the car Charley had given him, acquired under the name "Golmingo," and now it was a pawn in his plan.

He walked up to the car, using the mechanical key to pry open the plastic cover of the driver's side door handle. He inserted the mechanical key into the lock and turned it gently. The car door popped open with a click.

He didn't get in. He simply left the key in the lock cylinder. The thieves in Paris were efficient; within a day, this car would be gone.

Beta stepped back two paces, taking one last look at the car about to be stolen. This car was a carefully designed smoke bomb, intended to disrupt any potential pursuit. The best way to make it disappear was with the "help" of some "good Samaritan."

He turned and left, his figure melting into the shadows of the parking lot.

Beta followed the camera blind spots, turning into the restroom at the end of the parking lot.

He pushed the door open, quickly scanning. The empty wash area, the vacant stalls, only the exhaust fan humming overhead.

He locked the innermost stall, took a transparent sealed box from a hidden compartment in his backpack, and used his fingertip to lift the meticulously trimmed fake beard. He carefully wiped around his mouth with an alcohol pad, then steadily applied it.

The empty box was tucked back into his backpack. Another small metal case popped open, revealing two contact lenses. He opened his eyelids, his ice-blue irises covered by the black lenses.

The sunglasses were folded into their dust bag, replaced by retro tortoiseshell-framed non-prescription glasses. The slightly worn temples pressed against the newly applied gray-white hairpieces at his temples.

He took off his coat, the fabric rustling softly as he stuffed it into his backpack. The plain cotton t-shirt underneath was turned inside out, white becoming black.

The backpack was placed horizontally on the toilet tank. He pulled open a hidden zipper, and the outer black fabric peeled away, revealing the brown leather beneath.

Finally, he lifted his right foot, his fingernail digging into the seam of the sole. The three-layered molded insoles were removed one by one, followed by his left foot, though he deliberately left one piece behind.

When the stall door opened again, a stooped, scholar-like man emerged: carrying an old brown briefcase, wearing a black t-shirt, his eyes behind the lenses tired and vacant, walking with a limp, his temples streaked with gray, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

The exhaust fan continued to spin, swallowing all the subtle sounds of his identity being dismantled. Beta stood before the mirror, confirming his disguise. There were no flaws.

Beta left the parking lot, his steps naturally blending into the crowd at the taxi pickup area.

His gaze quickly scanned the line of waiting drivers.

Some were looking down at their phones, others leaned against their car doors yawning, and one was impatiently tapping on his steering wheel. Finally, he settled on a middle-aged driver lounging by the hood of his car, a half-smoked cigarette held between his fingers, the collar of his uniform shirt askew.

"Avenue des Champs-Élysées, please," Beta said, lowering his voice and adding a slight southern accent to his French.

The driver slowly straightened up, casually opening the car door for him with a perfunctory, apathetic gesture.

A faint scent of tobacco and mint candy filled the car. As the engine started, the driver finally lit the cigarette, wisps of gray smoke curling through the gaps in the car window.

With a slight jolt as the tires crossed a speed bump, the taxi slowly merged into the airport highway traffic, leaving the steel dome of Charles de Gaulle Airport far behind.

The driver clearly wasn't paying much attention to his passenger in the back seat. He had half a cigarette in his mouth, ash falling onto the wrinkled front of his shirt. The steering wheel was spun roughly between his fingers, and he occasionally leaned out the window to spit a string of heavily accented curses at the driver in the next lane.

When a Mercedes cut in front of them aggressively, the driver took a final drag of his cigarette, the glowing tip arcing through the air and landing precisely in the other driver's open window.

Taking advantage of the other driver's momentary panic, the driver slammed on the gas. The taxi roared, protesting under the strain, and shot through the intersection as the traffic light turned red.

In the rearview mirror, the enraged Mercedes driver grew smaller and smaller. Only then did the driver turn back with satisfaction, freeing both hands to grip the steering wheel.

With fingers stained by nicotine, the driver twisted the radio knob. A hoarse melody immediately filled the car.

Oblivious to how grating his raspy voice was, he sang along loudly with the radio, his words mangled by his missing teeth. Whenever he hit a high note, the veins on his neck bulged, like a rooster being choked, yet he still clapped along with intoxicating rhythm, the steering wheel swaying with the beat.

As the tires hit potholes, the driver's broken high notes were scattered, but he became even more animated, slapping the dashboard, making the plastic cover of the meter rattle.