Page 100 of Enzo

Robbie

Roman Lowe died on a Friday.Allegedly he was caught up in a gang shootout and subsequent fire, his image was thrown up in the media as an unknown victim, with extensive social coverage that was way more than what some random guy off the street would normally be given, a note saying facial reconstruction was used after wounds made it impossible to identify him.

The victim’s name was announced a few days later. Roman Lowe was lost to the system, lived rough, had not been seen for a long time, and had no family who came forward. There was even a ten-minute segment on children in group homes who slip through the system, and a well-orchestrated social media campaign with Roman Lowe front and center.

Whatever Killian had done to get this out there, whatever strings he’d pulled, I owed him.

I didn’t have to like him much—he was too larger-than-life for me—but I owed him. He sat me and Enzo down to get everything I knew, and told me he had a photographic memory and that he found it hard sometimes to flush his brain. I didn’t explain mine was a compulsion, a need. I didn’t have to because he knew.

Three days later the bounty on me was removed.

Then everything moved so fast, and a week after everyone deemed it safe for me to move, contacts in, I made my first trip outside Redcars, in the back of Rio’s truck, curled up next to Enzo, scared out of my mind.

The surgeon’s office was in this exclusive Beverly Hills medical center, all marble and glass and subtle wealth. Dr. Lukash had a reputation for discretion, for clients who needed work done without questions, or so Killian told us when he visited to explain what happened next. Movie stars wanting to maintain the fiction of natural beauty. Politicians erasing evidence of indiscretions. And now me—someone who needed to become a ghost.

“Mr. Cooper?” The receptionist said, using the fake name Killian had arranged. You can go in.”

My fingers gripped Enzo’s arm so tight I was sure I’d leave bruises. He didn’t complain, simply covered my hand with his.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “Remember what Killian said? In and out. Minor alterations. Nothing that changes who you are. Keeps you safe from Mitchell and whoever the others are. Yeah?”

I nodded mechanically. The science of becoming someone else while still being yourself. Cheekbones subtly reshaped. Jaw slightly altered. Nose just different enough. Not a complete change, but enough to make facial recognition software fail. Enough that someone who’d seen me once wouldn’t recognize me on the street.

“I’ll be right here when you’re done,” Enzo promised, squeezing my hand before letting go.

The doctor’s office was nothing like I expected. No medical posters, no anatomical diagrams of faces but quite a few weird abstracts on the wall, and a large desk.

Dr. Lukash himself was tall, with silver hair, and his handshake was firm but gentle.

“Mr. Cooper. Please, sit.” He gestured to a chair across from his desk. “I understand your situation is… sensitive.”

“Did Killian explain everything?” My voice sounded small.

“He did.” Dr. Lukash nodded, opening a folder on his desk. “And I’ve reviewed your case thoroughly. I want to assure you that what we’re doing is subtle art, not dramatic transformation. The goal is to create just enough difference that you’ll slip past recognition without losing your essential self.”

He turned his monitor toward me, showing a 3D model of my face. With a few clicks, the image shifted—subtle changes appearing and disappearing as he demonstrated possibilities.

“Your cheekbones here,” he pointed with a stylus, “slightly more pronounced. Your eyes… hmm, nothing we can do about the color unless we… no… contacts will fix that. Okay…jawline softened, just a touch. Bridge of the nose altered by two millimeters.” He glanced up at me. “Small changes that add up to a new visual signature without making you unrecognizable to those who know you well.”

I swallowed hard. “How long will recovery take?”

“Four weeks until the swelling is completely gone. Six weeks until you see the final result.” He leaned back in his chair. “Mr. Cooper, I’ve worked with many clients who needed to disappear. The physical transformation is only part of the process.”

I nodded, remembering Killian’s lengthy briefing. New mannerisms. Different posture and changing how I walked.

“When can we start?” I asked, surprised by the steadiness in my voice.

“Tomorrow morning. Seven a.m.” He handed me a folder. “These are your pre-op instructions. Nothing to eat after midnight. No aspirin or blood thinners. And”—he fixed me with a serious look—”absolutely no one besides your companion can know you’re here, no social posting, no hints, no phone calls to friends.”

I clutched the folder to my chest. “I understand.”

He stood and we shook hands. “All charges are covered. You must be good friends with Killian because this is way off-base for him.”

I wasn’t, I was someone he was helping, but he was dealing with all the money I’d hidden, and I hoped that somehow he’d be digging into that reserve for this.

“Yeah,” I said, just for something to say.

“I’ll see you at seven, sharp, room two-one. I’ve written it on your notes in case you forget.”

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