Erich lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. His body was exhausted, but his brain was firing on all cylinders. Eventually, the exhaustion dragged him under.

The dream hit him instantly.

He was standing in the massive living room of the Malibu beach house. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the dark, churning ocean. The air conditioning was freezing, biting into his skin.

Erik Patton stood by the glass, his broad shoulders blocking out the moonlight. He was wearing a perfectly tailored suit. In his large hands, he casually twirled Erich's favorite sable-hair paintbrush.

"You think you're an artist?" Erik's voice was smooth, dripping with condescension. It echoed off the glass walls. "Your work is garbage, Erich. You're only here because you look pretty standing next to me."

Erich opened his mouth to scream at him, but his throat was paralyzed. No sound came out.

Erik turned around. His eyes were dead and cold. He gripped both ends of the paintbrush and snapped it in half.

The sharp crack of the wood breaking echoed like a gunshot.

Erik threw the broken pieces at Erich's feet. "Know your place."

Erich gasped and shot up in bed.

His eyes flew open. He was drenched in cold sweat. His hands were clawing at the fabric of his t-shirt, right over his violently racing heart. The phantom chill of the Malibu house still clung to his skin.

He threw his legs over the side of the bed. His bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor. He needed to physically ground himself.

He walked to the window and ripped the curtains open.

The bright, blinding morning sun flooded the room. He squinted against the glare, looking out at the cracked pavement and the neighbor's overgrown lawn.

There were no security cameras. No bodyguards parked at the end of the driveway. He was free.

Erich turned away from the window and marched over to the small wooden desk in the corner. He yanked the drawer open. Inside lay a chaotic mess of sketchpads and pencils.

He grabbed a standard graphite pencil.

The second the wood touched his fingers, his hand began to shake violently. The PTSD from Erik's constant criticism paralyzed his motor skills.

Erich gritted his teeth. His jaw locked so hard it ached. He forced his fingers to wrap around the pencil, squeezing until his knuckles turned white.

He slammed the graphite tip onto a blank piece of paper.

He dragged the pencil across the page. The line was jagged, ugly, and completely lacked the smooth, refined technique he was famous for.

It was perfect.

He began to draw frantically. He sketched the outline of Erik's arrogant face, and then he violently scribbled over it, pressing the pencil down with all his body weight. He slashed heavy, black lines across the paper, destroying the image.

Snap.

The pencil lead broke under the pressure. The sharp wooden edge tore a massive gash through the paper.

Erich stopped. He stared at the ruined drawing. His chest heaved as he sucked in oxygen.

A low, raspy chuckle vibrated in his throat. The chuckle grew louder, turning into a dark, manic laugh that filled the small bedroom. It was the sound of a man who had survived a firing squad.

A loud knock hit his bedroom door.

"Are you having a psychotic break in there?" Keyla yelled through the wood.

Erich stopped laughing. He picked up the torn paper, crushed it into a tight ball, and threw it perfectly into the trash can.

He walked to the door and yanked it open.

Keyla stumbled forward, almost losing her balance. She had been leaning against the door to listen. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with apprehension.

Erich stared down at her. His eyes were completely clear, sharp as broken glass.

"Tell Mom I'm going to New York," he said, his voice dead calm. "I'm entering the youth art competition."

Keyla's jaw dropped. She blinked rapidly, trying to process the information. "Are you out of your mind?"

Erich didn't answer. He stepped around her and walked straight down the hall to the bathroom.

He turned on the faucet, letting the freezing water run over his hands. He cupped the water and splashed it directly into his face.

The shock of the cold water washed away the last lingering traces of the nightmare. He grabbed a towel and scrubbed his face dry.

He looked at himself in the mirror. The heavy curtain of hair still hid his features, but the eyes staring back at him were different. They were predatory.

He mouthed the words to his reflection, making a vow to the stranger in the glass. Never again.

Down the hall, Keyla started screaming for Brenda. The sound of a plate shattering echoed from the kitchen. The gears of his new life were finally turning.

Erich walked down the stairs, using the towel to dry the back of his neck. The smell of burnt toast and cheap, acidic coffee filled the hallway.

He stepped into the kitchen.

Brenda was leaning over the small dining table, both hands planted flat on the surface. She was staring at a crumpled, brightly colored flyer for the New York Youth Art Grand Prix. Her entire body was vibrating with nervous energy.

When Erich entered, she snapped her head up.

"Is it true?" she asked, her voice breathless. "Keyla said you want to go to New York."

Erich pulled out a wobbly wooden chair and sat down. He reached across the table, grabbed a piece of blackened toast, and took a bite. The dry, burnt taste grounded him.

He nodded once.

Brenda let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. She pressed her hands to her face. "Thank God. Oh, thank God. You're finally coming back to us."

Keyla was leaning against the kitchen counter, her arms crossed defensively. She let out a loud, mocking snort.

"Yeah, great miracle," Keyla sneered. "But how are we paying for this? Bus tickets to New York, a hotel room, food? We don't have a dime, Mom."

Brenda's joyful expression shattered. The harsh reality of their poverty crashed down on her. She nervously wiped her hands on her apron.

"I... I can ask the bank for an overdraft," Brenda stammered, her eyes darting around the room. "Or I can take my grandmother's necklace to the pawnshop downtown."

Erich stopped chewing. He swallowed the dry toast. A surge of disgust hit him-not at Brenda, but at the situation. He refused to let this woman sell her dignity for him.

He reached across the table and tapped his finger sharply against the flyer. "The grand prize is fifty thousand dollars," Erich said, his voice cutting through her panic. "That would stop the foreclosure and cover your medical bills. It's an investment, not a vacation."

He looked at Keyla. Beneath her sarcastic armor, he saw the subtle way her eyes kept darting to the New York flyer. She wanted to go.

Erich set his toast down. He looked directly at Keyla.

"You're coming with me," he said flatly.

Keyla jumped, her elbow knocking into the toaster. "What? Why me?"

"I haven't left the house in six months," Erich lied smoothly, weaponizing the original host's social anxiety. "I can't handle crowds. I need someone to manage the logistics and keep people away from me."

It was the perfect excuse. It was bulletproof.

Brenda's eyes lit up. She spun toward Keyla, grabbing her daughter's arm. "Keyla, please. It's a great opportunity for you to see the city. And I'd feel so much better knowing you're watching him."

Keyla groaned loudly, dragging her hands down her face. "Mom, I have shifts at the diner! I have midterms! I can't babysit a grown man!"

Erich reached into the pocket of his sweatpants. He pulled out two crumpled twenty-dollar bills-the last of the original Erich's money. He smoothed out and slid them across the table toward Keyla.

"Advance payment for the tour guide," Erich said, his voice dropping into a low, authoritative register. "I'll make the rest of the money when I sell my painting."

Keyla stared at the money, then looked up at Erich. The sheer, unshakeable confidence radiating from him made her skin prickle. This wasn't the brother who used to cry in his closet.

She reached out and pushed the money back toward him.

"Keep your garbage money," she muttered, her cheeks flushing slightly. "But I get the bed by the window in the hotel."

Erich's lips twitched into a microscopic smirk. He had her.

Brenda clapped her hands together. "Okay! I'll figure out the bus tickets. Keyla, start looking up cheap motels in Brooklyn."

Keyla rolled her eyes, but she immediately pulled her phone out of her pocket and started typing rapidly.

Erich watched her thumbs fly across the screen. A strange sense of warmth spread through his chest. It was the feeling of a team. A family. Erik Patton had isolated him from everyone, convincing him he was worthless. Here, he was the center of gravity.

He stood up and carried his plate to the sink.

"Make sure you book my haircut for three o'clock," he said over his shoulder.

The rapid tapping on Keyla's phone stopped instantly. The kitchen went dead silent.

"You're actually going through with it?" Keyla asked, her voice laced with genuine shock.

Erich turned on the faucet to wash his hands. "I can't go to New York looking like a homeless drug addict."

Keyla didn't argue. She tapped her screen a few more times. "Three o'clock. Old Joe's Barbershop on Main Street."

Erich dried his hands and walked out of the kitchen. He could feel their eyes burning into his back. The first piece of his armor was about to be stripped away.

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.