That was when the idea took shape. Not a will. Not a board vote. A test.
The scissors hacked at my silver hair until it stood up in wild tufts.
I would find that person myself. Whoever helped a useless old man in a torn coat would inherit everything I had built.
The man in the glass still wore a custom shirt and combed silver hair. Still looked like money.
I picked up the scissors.
“The billionaire has to disappear,” I whispered, “before the truth can appear.”
The scissors hacked at my silver hair until it stood up in wild tufts. I glued on a ragged beard, pulled on torn clothes that smelled of basement, and rubbed dirt into the creases around my eyes.
Staring back at me was someone people never stopped to save.
Then I poured spoiled milk down the front of my coat.
Underneath it all, I still wore my usual luxury cologne. A small private joke. A reminder to myself of who I really was.
