Before he died, Frederick Carmichael swore that death was pathetic. In his eyes, only the weak ended up in early graves, only those who were not brave enough to challenge and cheat death, defying the odds to defeat something as mysterious as an intangible force of nature. This thought arose when Carmichael realized that life never gave him anything easily, and therefore, he would not give himself so easily to death either.

His tragedy began in 1970 with an unpleasant fate called "being born from a very brief love affair with no future." His mother was very young, barely over twenty years of age. She was an unruly girl, or so he was told, and she had a fixation with finding the right man. Of course, Carmichael's father wasn't the right man, given that he left the morning after they spent the night together. No one even knew his name.

His mother gave birth nine months later and cared for him for only three weeks before giving up, getting drunk, and leaving him to his fate in a hotel room so she could elope with another man whose appearance only promised misfortune. He was found by the guests next door after almost two whole days of crying. Luckily, they couldn't find his mother or contact his relatives, so, unsurprisingly, he ended up in an orphanage. That's where it all really started.

Since his mother never named him, one of the orphanage caretakers earned the right to do so and chose sentimentality over anything else. She named him Frederick after the recently deceased owner of the orphanage, and Carmichael was the result of combining his mother's first and last names, Carrie Michaelson. So instead of simply calling him Michaelson, she decided to get creative and merge them to form a completely different last name: Carmichael. It wasn't a name with a spectacular or epic origin like the protagonist of some novel or movie. He was simply Frederick Carmichael.

His childhood was what could be nominated as peculiar. He attended a public school with a low educational level and whose student body only seemed to have the potential to be future convicts. Carmichael, by then, had chosen to call himself only by his last name since he was teased at the orphanage for having the name of the deceased owner. Incoherent logic of children. At school, he was an accomplished and quiet student, deliberately drawing little attention to not become a target for bullies. Until he made the mistake of making eye contact with one.

"Stop acting like a wuss, Carmichael!" A boy with an impish face and a nasty smile from which several teeth were missing yelled at him. "Are you afraid? Do you want your mommy?"

No, he wasn't afraid, and he couldn't want his mother either because he didn't even have one. To tell the truth, back then, he was only worried that the kid would punch him and break his nose since it would just be a huge nuisance to explain to the orphanage caretaker.

Carmichael was not a fan of physical violence. He was well aware of his malnourished and puny physique and never considered himself fit to deal with children who were taller and more robust than him. However, there was something that bothered him, and it was that they made him feel inferior, more than he already believed he was due to his situation. But instead of fighting with closed fists, he decided to be a little smarter and use words, not even aggressions, just something more subtle; lies, flattery, and his favorite, manipulation.

"You're right," he conceded. "You scare me because you're so much stronger than I am."

The boy didn't understand why he had admitted such a thing, but the mere mention of his strength brought a smile to his face.

"Look at this idiot," he kept teasing, and his friends laughed with him.

Carmichael, on the other hand, took out some bills from his pants pocket - stolen, of course. To everyone's surprise, he offered them to the boy and asked, "How about we make a deal?"

The deal he made with the child was protection in exchange for money. This involved hanging out with the group of abusive boys, paying them whatever they wanted, seeing how they abused others, and going unnoticed. It didn't cost Carmichael anything to steal money from the orphanage caretakers, and when they noticed the robbery, their first reaction was to blame the children with the worst records; he was never among them. He was too inconsequential to even be considered a suspect.

That was the first lesson he learned: make others believe that you are nobody, but always be somebody.

When he reached adolescence, he took advantage of his talents to steal with greater ambition - jewelry, watches, and entire wallets instead of just bills and coins. He easily deceived people, gained their trust, and at the right time, snatched their belongings. Before they realized the theft, he disappeared without a trace.

By then, he no longer needed to pay for anyone's protection. On the contrary, people came to him begging for help.

"Please, Carmichael, what do you want for a few bucks?" asked a popular boy from his class known for his parties. "My dad can't find out that I stole money from his studio."

Carmichael peered at him. The opportunity was served on a silver platter.

"I'll give you the money, but in exchange, invite me to your party," he conditioned.

The boy in question was one of the wealthiest, and his parties were known to be full of alcohol, drugs, and chaos. For Carmichael, that catastrophe was an opportunity. He entered the party as another guest, drank a little, flirted with some girls, and as soon as he saw his opportunity, he sneaked into the father's studio. There were piles of cash in the desk drawers, a small gold mine for someone like him. He took everything and fled the city that same night.

That was the second lesson he learned: disappear before they set out to find you.

His early adult years were the hardest. His thefts were insufficient to support himself, and if there was one thing he abhorred, it was scarcity. That displeasure led him to raise the level of his bad habits. He became a full-fledged con man, a manipulator who would lie to others' faces to get something in return.

His new strategy was to make use of the only virtue his mother left him: his physique. He was barely twenty years old, good-looking, and with a facility for words that gave him an overflowing charisma. He flirted, flattered, and praised any wealthy person who crossed his path and used them to gain some advantage, whether it was money, expensive gifts, or at least a good night in some fancy place. And no, he had no scruples.

One of his best victims was an art-loving woman named Amelie Ross. She was older than him by more than ten years, but she bragged that everything in her life was aesthetic, including her partners.

"Your beautiful joviality and charisma are your best ammunition, Frederick," she told him. "Use them for your benefit."

Carmichael had a certain degree of admiration for her since they both thought alike.

"I will," he simply replied.

One night, Amelie took him to one of her art exhibits. She affirmed that they were one of the most exclusive in the city and only a few could access. The guests always begged her to sell them some pieces.

"I'll only sell them to the highest bidder, you know that already," she reiterated.

It was at that exhibition that Carmichael understood Amelie's love for art. The paintings on display seemed drawn by imagination itself, preciousness represented in vibrant colors and majestic concepts, all captured on a simple canvas, made by a single person, geniuses. It was truly incredible... And he wanted to possess it.

Throughout his life, everything he obtained was for the sake of a greater benefit, but he never stopped to contemplate that he could possess something for mere pleasure and satisfaction. A painting wouldn't do him any good, who would he sell it to? Would he just keep it to admire it?

Yes, that was exactly what he wanted. Not ten minutes later, he had formed a new whim in his head.

The victim of that whim? A painting titled in Spanish "Encuentro fortuito" (Fortuitous encounter) by a mysterious artist whose only surname was Altamirano. The description was just as vague, saying that it belonged to a series titled "Dama sin rostro" (Faceless Lady), made up of nine other paintings.

The painting was of a woman with her back to the viewer in a semi-empty room, illuminated by orange light coming through a window, but the curious thing was that, in front of her, stood an indecipherable figure; a plethora of incomprehensible strokes made with all varieties of colors.

Carmichael found it fascinating, definitely the best piece in the entire exhibition; so mystical, but so comforting at the same time. He didn't know how to describe it.

"Did you find one you like?" Amelie appeared next to him, a glass of champagne in hand.

"Yes," he admitted, without taking his eyes off the Altamirano. "I did."

By that time, he had already made up his mind. He would steal the painting.

He determined that the best moment to do it would be when they dismantled the exhibition and moved the painting. It was right after the last exhibition that they began to lift everything, putting the works of art in a truck to transport them to a warehouse. Amelie left that job to someone else, and Carmichael, instead of going with her, said that he would go to his own house that night. The night before, while she was sleeping, he stole the keys to the warehouse. Everything was prepared.

The warehouse was almost on the outskirts of the city, very well hidden since it was so overlooked. He was surprised at how easily he got in since there was no one guarding the place and no security system either.

Urged by nervousness and emotion, Carmichael did not question his luck and searched for the Altamirano among all the other pieces, finding the painting resting on an easel. A smile was born on his lips when he saw it. It was going to be so easy to just take it and leave, disappear.

Emphasis on was.

"I didn't think a mediocre pickpocket had such guts." A voice interrupted him, Amelie's voice. "Turn around, Frederick."

He heard a gun being loaded and cursed to himself. Of course, he couldn't be that lucky; he never earned anything easily, and this was no exception. That no guards were protecting the warehouse or a security system installed hadn't been a coincidence, but a scenario planned specifically for him. It was game over.

"I didn't think he had the guts to steal a painting either," he responded, raising his hands above his head to surrender. "I guess we're both very disappointed."

Amelie crossed her arms, and behind her was the guard, his gun pointed at Carmichael's head. He was sure that if the trigger was pulled, it would blow his brains out.

"If you're going to steal, at least make sure you don't leave a trace," she chided, as if it were a lesson.

Carmichael frowned.

"I didn't leave any trace," he asserted. He had corroborated.

"Your words, your glances, your smiles, your affirmations; they're all traces, Frederick," she explained, narrowing her eyes. "I know how to recognize the intense desire to possess in anyone's gaze."

There he learned the third and last lesson: leave no trace, not even a glance.

Sin entailed penance. Amelie didn't call the police, since what she was doing was no less illegal than Carmichael's robbery; it was the same but in different proportions. She belonged to a mafia, a guild of dealers, counterfeiters, and art thieves. Her exhibit wasn't so secret because it was exclusive, but because it was a vile crime. And unfortunately, that Altamirano was one of her favorite paintings. The punishment was proportional.

"Do you know how much it cost me to obtain that painting?" She questioned.

Carmichael, tied to a chair in the same warehouse, starving, dehydrated, exhausted, and beaten beyond recognition, maintained his usual cynical attitude. If he was going to lose, he wasn't going to do it with his head down.

"I have no idea," he replied.

"More than sixteen years."

Carmichael snorted.

"How patient," he sneered.

He received another punch to the gut. He leaned forward, coughing desperately to catch his breath. Amelie appeared in front of him, grabbing his hair to lift his head and connect their eyes.

"You're a loner, aren't you?" She questioned.

"Do I seem to have the talent to work for someone?" He laughed under his breath. "You said it, I'm just a mediocre pickpocket."

"And a con man." She released his hair roughly.

"You too."

Amelie sighed and, after signaling to her guard, he nodded and left.

"I'm going to ask you one more question, Frederick..."

"Carmichael," he interrupted. "I prefer Carmichael."

Amelie narrowed her eyes.

"I'm going to ask you one more question, Carmichael, and I want you to answer it with complete honesty," she continued.

"I haven't told a single lie since I've been locked up here," he assured her.

Amelie's guard returned, bringing the Altamirano with him. He left it with the easel in front of Carmichael, only a few feet away. Was this a new method of torture? The unattainable whim?

Amelie reached out to her guard and he placed his pistol in her palm. She moved closer to Carmichael and pressed the barrel against his forehead, loading the weapon with a graceful movement of her fingers.

"Why did you want to steal it?" She pointed at the painting with her free hand.

Carmichael didn't even hesitate.

"Because I like it," he replied with complete and simple sincerity. "It's fascinating."

Amelie, intrigued by his answer and probably realizing that he wasn't lying, removed the gun from his forehead and crouched down so that she could look straight into his eyes.

"You have fascinating eyes, and I don't use that term lightly," she had told him when they first met. Since then, he acquired a special appreciation for that word.

"Do you know what will happen next?" Amelie asked.

"You will kill me."

"The odds are high.

Carmichael shook his head slowly, pushing his luck.

Luck? He thought. I was born without knowing it and I still don't want the pleasure of doing so.

Luck was a boundary to his potential. Nothing could be a matter of fortune, everything had to be calculated, and everything had to come from his effort, otherwise, it wouldn't feel like merit.

"They're not that high," he asserted then.

Amelie's brows creased slightly, still holding the gun to his head.

"Elaborate," she commanded.

Carmichael remembered the first time he had used his talents, the ones that had kept him afloat for so long.

"You're smarter than me and you know what's good for you," he flattered, flashing a sly smile. "How about we make a deal?"

The deal was to work for her until he made up for his mistake. He soon realized exactly where he had gotten himself into. It was the perfect place for someone like him; a thief, a manipulator, a con man. It didn't take long for him to fit in and stand out.

In just two years, he became one of the best con men of that mafia, Amelie's favorite, and of many others who began to pay for his services. He committed his crimes always utilizing the three lessons he learned over the years:

Make others believe that you are nobody, but always be somebody.

Disappear before they set out to find you.

Leave no trace, not even a glance.

Those three phrases made him a talented criminal. Eight years passed and he continued to apply the same principles until they were rewarded when Amelie, to free him from his debt, gave him the most important commission yet.

"Steal the tenth and last Altamirano, the most valuable they own." Those words were like music to his ears. "The Lady's Face."

The Altamiranos were his obsession. Since he lost the previous one, now he just wanted to own one again, hold it between his fingers and rejoice looking at it. He wanted to see one with his own eyes again, but somehow, he always seemed to push them away.

"With pleasure," he accepted without hesitation.

At that moment he had no idea that his major obsession would ultimately lead to his death and thus committing the biggest scam of mankind.

But that was a story for another time.