At 2:50 PM, the rusted Chevy pulled up to the curb on Main Street.
Old Joe's Barbershop was a relic from the eighties. The red, white, and blue barber pole spun lazily by the front door, emitting a low, mechanical hum.
Erich pushed the glass door open. A brass bell chimed loudly. The air inside was thick with the sharp, chemical scent of Barbicide and cheap talcum powder.
Joe, a heavy-set Italian man with a thick mustache, looked up from sweeping the black-and-white checkered floor. His eyebrows shot up in surprise when he saw Erich.
Keyla walked in behind him, her hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets. She jutted her chin toward Joe.
"Give him something that doesn't make him look like a serial killer, Joe," she said.
Joe chuckled, tapping his broom against the wall. He pointed to the heavy leather barber chair in the center of the room. "Have a seat, kid."
Erich walked over and sat down. The leather groaned under his weight.
Joe shook out a white nylon cape and swung it around Erich's shoulders, snapping the clip tightly at the back of his neck. The slight pressure against his throat made Erich's pulse spike. He forced his hands to grip the armrests, grounding himself.
Joe stood behind him, looking at Erich's reflection in the large, smudged mirror. He ran his thick fingers through the greasy, tangled mass of hair.
"How much are we taking off?" Joe asked.
Erich stared at the dark curtain of hair hiding his face. He didn't hesitate.
"All of it."
Joe paused. "You want a buzz cut?"
Keyla gasped loudly from the waiting chairs near the window.
"No," Erich said, his voice cold and precise. "Short. Off the ears and neck. Clean."
Joe shrugged. "You're the boss."
He picked up a pair of long silver shears. He grabbed a massive handful of hair at the base of Erich's neck.
Snip.
A heavy, dark clump of hair slid off the nylon cape and hit the floor with a soft thud.
Erich closed his eyes. The sound of the scissors slicing through the hair right next to his ears was deafening. With every cut, the physical weight pulling on his scalp lessened. It felt like he was shedding a diseased skin.
Keyla had stopped scrolling on her phone. She was sitting up straight, staring intensely at the mirror.
Joe put down the scissors and picked up the electric clippers. He flipped the switch. The loud buzzing sound filled the small shop. He pressed the cold metal guard against the back of Erich's neck, pushing upward.
The clippers shaved away the ragged edges, exposing the sharp, angular line of Erich's jaw.
Ten minutes later, the buzzing stopped. Joe grabbed a blow dryer, blasting away the loose hairs clinging to Erich's forehead. He unclipped the cape and pulled it away with a flourish.
Joe let out a low whistle. He patted Erich heavily on the shoulder.
"Well, I'll be damned. You were hiding a movie star under that mop, kid."
Erich slowly opened his eyes. He focused his vision on the mirror.
His breath caught in his throat. His lungs stopped working. His fingers dug so hard into the leather armrests that his nails almost punctured the material.
Staring back at him was a face he knew intimately.
A straight, aristocratic nose. Deep-set, piercing eyes. Thin, sharp lips.
And resting just below the outer corner of his left eye, a distinct, dark teardrop mole.
Except for the sickly pallor of his skin and the hollowed-out cheeks from starvation, the face in the mirror was identical to his old body. He looked exactly like Erich Colon.
A wave of pure, unadulterated terror crashed over him. His fingers twitched, instinctively rising to graze the skin just beneath his eye. The face was one thing, but the mole... that damned mole was a signature. A death sentence. He would have to buy heavy concealer. He would have to hide.
Keyla's phone slipped from her hands and clattered onto the linoleum floor.
She stood up slowly, walking toward the chair like she was approaching a stranger. Her mouth opened and closed twice before she found her voice.
"Holy shit," she whispered. "I thought you were ugly. Who the hell did you inherit those genetics from?"
Her voice snapped Erich out of his panic spiral. He realized that because the original host had hidden behind that hair for years, his own family didn't even know what he truly looked like.
Erich forced his hands to release the armrests. He stared at his reflection, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Probably some bastard," Erich said, forcing a cold, rigid smirk onto his face.
Joe laughed, handing Erich a small hand mirror to check the back. Erich pushed it away, stood up, and pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket, leaving it on the counter.
He walked out of the barbershop. The bright afternoon sun hit his exposed face. He felt completely naked. Vulnerable.
If he went to New York looking exactly like Erich Colon, and anyone from Erik Patton's world saw him, it would be over. Erik would drag him back to hell.
Erich stopped on the sidewalk. He looked at his reflection in the dark glass of the barbershop window. The man staring back looked sharp, dangerous, and completely devoid of fear.
His jaw locked. Let him try, Erich thought. This time, I'm not the one who's going to bleed.
