Frederick Carmichael had a mission. Stealing the tenth and final Altamirano was something he felt destined to do. He needed to have that painting in his hands, revel in its brushstrokes, appreciate its colors, once again feel what a mind as privileged as Mariale Altamirano's was capable of projecting onto a canvas.

It took him months to get to this point. Like the good con artist he was, he posed as a security guard, investigating which company worked for the Altamiranos.

Make others believe you're nobody, but always be someone.

The plan was not perfect nor original, but its success depended not only on that, but on his talent and confidence in his abilities.

Finally, a door was all that separated him from the Altamirano. He was right in front of the room for which he had subtly pulled the strings and arranged to be a guard on solo duty. Mariale Altamirano was extremely careful and meticulous with her paintings and her protection, so there were always guards making rounds, but he had calculated that at a certain hour, two guards passed by the room every twenty minutes. It was more than enough time.

There were security cameras in the room, but he had taken care of them the night before, leaving a recording of the room without any movement over the real video. Days could pass without even a fly stopping at that site.

So, as soon as the hands of his watch marked nine o'clock on the dot and his shift began, he got to work. He deactivated the alarm with the code he, as a guard, had been given and entered the room, closing the door behind him cautiously.

The remaining nine Altamiranos were all on display there. Eight of them in plain sight. It was the same concept repeated over and over again, but it wasn't annoying. On the contrary, you wanted more and more of these works. The greatest mystery of these was knowing who the faceless lady was, finding out her identity and resolving everyone's doubts.

"The lady's face."

That was the name of the tenth painting, covered with a thick brown paper that could only be opened with the help of a blade. They really wanted to protect the image hidden beneath it.

Carmichael felt the enormous temptation to tear off that cover and see inside, but he swallowed his impulses and, with a shake of his head, took the canvas.

It was heavy, more than he expected, so movement would be limited. He had anticipated this, but unfortunately what followed was the most dangerous part of the plan. Leaving the house without being seen and, if so, exterminating the witnesses.

He exhaled and left the room with the painting in hand. He crept through the house through all the blind spots, surprised by how stealthily he moved to the point where he could almost go unnoticed.

Disappear before they start looking for you.

He entered a room whose window faced the backyard of the house, which bordered a forest and a path that led to an old truck that he would drive and leave unnoticed. Freedom, success was so close. No one had ever come so far because no one had ever been so dedicated to stealing this painting.

He took a moment to catch his breath and calm the adrenaline pumping in his veins. He looked out the window and, as he predicted, there was no one waiting below. It was a clean plan.

He took off the guard suit he was wearing and only wore a white shirt rolled up, black pants, and gloves of the same color.

"I've got you," he whispered to the painting.

He opened the window and his face was hit by a blast of cold air with the aroma of pine from the forest. It was refreshing, an aroma that he was sure he would always relate to this great moment in his career.

Until the first obstacle came.

He was optimistic in thinking that nothing would stop him, that he would escape without any problems and soon be inside the truck listening to an old station with the painting next to him as a copilot.

"Idiot." He reprimanded himself.

Turning around, he saw someone standing in the doorway, a detail he had forgotten. Mariale Altamirano was not the only one living in that house, her only son, Leonardo Altamirano, also lived there, a boy who had not even reached the majority of age yet.

The room through which Carmichael planned to escape was nothing more and nothing less than a small private library that belonged to Leonardo. He didn't usually go there at night, but fate flipped him the bird and decided that his karma, his punishment, would be this. A stupid mistake.

"You..." The boy began.

Carmichael froze. Their gazes met and without words, a message of hatred and betrayal was transmitted. Until a few hours ago, he had pretended to be a loyal employee of the Altamiranos and now...

"I'm sorry," said Carmichael, "but I'm selfish."

Leonardo Altamirano changed his surprise for intense anger and shouted:

"They're stealing the painting!"

He saw it coming, so ignoring the presence of the boy, he turned his back and prepared to escape through the window as per the original plan.

Another mistake.

The Altamiranos were an intelligent and cautious family, but for some reason, it never occurred to him that they would carry weapons with them and that the youngest member of the household would know perfectly well how to use one. He had made a great mistake, underestimating those around him who had the potential to be huge obstacles in his way.

As soon as he heard the gun being loaded, he turned his head around, but not all the speed in the world would have been able to stop that bullet. The copper-colored bullet that shot out of the barrel hit him in the lower back, piercing him.

The pain did not come instantly, but rather the fear and also a hint of anger. Carmichael felt the blood soaking his clothes, he saw the red stain growing on his white shirt, but it was not his priority. His priority remained the same.

Taking advantage of the fact that Leonardo was too scared by what he had just done, probably his first time shooting with the intention of killing, Carmichael hugged the painting to his chest, sat on the window frame, and let himself fall.

He fell onto his back and was overcome by a stabbing pain so intense that he could barely turn over on the ground to prop himself up on his elbows and stand up. He took the painting and ran. He ran even though he was losing blood at an alarming rate, he ran even though he had nothing assured and even though a voice in his subconscious screamed that he would not get out of this alive.

He laughed at the idea, at how fatalistic it was and how pathetic it would be to die like that.

As he ran, he looked at the ground, seeing the trail of blood he was leaving behind, a path that, as soon as they saw it, they would use to track him down and find him.

Don't leave traces, not even a look.

He was leaving everything in that house, even his life.

Miraculously, he managed to reach where the truck was parked. He got in quickly, took a few moments to catch his breath, and then placed the painting beside him, seeing the traces of his own blood that he had left on the brown paper.

However, even though his body no longer responded to him as before and fatigue was beginning to take over his limbs, he started the car, placed a hand over the wound to at least stop the blood flow a little, and drove away as best he could.

He didn't have a definite direction, he just knew he wanted and needed to get out of there. He wasn't going to die at the hands of the Altamiranos, his pride wouldn't allow it. He didn't want his death to be even more pathetic.

He wasn't going to return with Amelie either, it was pointless when he was bleeding out and she was hours away. It was a lonely road, with few things around, without a hospital in sight in case that, in an act of stupidity, he thought of going to one. He would survive, maybe, but the Altamiranos would find him and he would end up in prison, unless their henchmen exterminated him as punishment.

So he drove until his vision became too blurry to continue. He pulled over, took the Altamirano and got out of the car, continuing on foot until he came across a gravel path that led him to a high steel fence with a sign in Spanish that, given his limited knowledge, he could barely translate as "cemetery". It took him a few moments to realize he was still in Mexico, that he had moved to another country only to steal a painting.

He shook his head to clear his foggy mind and dragged his feet into the cemetery. His blood spilled in the graveyard, the metallic smell invaded his nostrils and he could no longer move without feeling a wave of nausea and dizziness.

He walked among the tombs until he reached one with a gloomy statue of the grim reaper. It seemed like a bad omen, a symbol of what awaited him in a few minutes.

He tasted blood in his mouth and could only laugh and curse again. Tears then formed at the corners of his eyes. He was crying. He was terrified.

He looked at the painting in his hands and, for the first time, he repudiated it. He hated the Altamirano because it had led him to his grave too soon. He was only twenty-eight years old, just discovering life and finding a glimpse of a direction to follow.

So, in his anger, he approached a filthy tomb that was open, took off his blood-stained gloves so as not to leave a trace and moved the remaining pieces of stone. He threw the canvas into it and then, with overwhelming anger, he threw fistfuls of dirt to cover it. He closed the crypt with the stone and left with the satisfaction that no one would find that damn painting. Neither the Altamiranos, nor the competition, nor Amelie. Only he would know where it is, only he and he would take the secret to the grave.

He stood up and, dragging his dying body towards the statue of the grim reaper, he let himself fall against it, and murmured one last thing:

"You won't win so easily."

Who did he say it to? Death? The Altamiranos? Amelie?

No. He said it to himself.

And he died.

(...)

Upon arriving at the death precinct, he found an immense line of people who had just passed away, who, in shock, could barely process where they were, their regrets, and their guilt. Many cried, others screamed, some soared ready to move on to the afterlife. Carmichael was none of them.

He saw a door in the distance. It was a black spot in the distance, but it seemed that no one else noticed it. He got out of line and headed towards it. It was a simple door that he felt, knew it was an exit. It was an opportunity to correct his uselessness, to get rid of the feeling of mediocrity for being a damn failure in life.

He opened it. It had no key, no lock, it was just a door and on the other side, there was a black void. He was about to step on it, but at that moment, a crowd of souls, other dead like him, rushed out and escaped.

Carmichael stepped back, frightened, about to claim that he had opened that door and therefore deserved to cross first. Until she appeared. Death, Lady Death, manifested herself.

She was not visible, she was only incomprehensible colors and shapes, but he knew she was Death. A black sheet covered her, and Carmichael, for a moment, swore he saw the cemetery reaper. He fell to his knees, impressed, in love with the beauty of such an incomprehensible entity, and did the best he knew how to do... he lied.

He lied and assured that the door had been opened by all those souls. Lady Death said nothing until he offered to retrieve them for her, to hunt them down and bring them back to where they belonged.

Lady Death leaned towards him and, without the need for words, Carmichael understood what she meant.

"I trust you".