Straight for me (the masked man)

Chapter 1: Mickael Lucius Stevenson

I'm not happy being who I am.

So my job is all I have. I need it to live, to breathe, to exist.

In four years of service I've taken on more than three hundred identities. Sometimes I have lived my dream life, and sometimes I have been my worst nightmare. I have taken on the role of people who are hated, loved by all, joyful, moaning, pretentious, sporty, lazy... I've been your worst enemy as well as your best friend. I love my job. I've come across all kinds of clients.

Sometimes I've been welcomed by clients asking for more exciting services. People say I'm a womanizer. I can also be a man-killer and that's what I like best. I know how to put people in my pocket so people like me.

I hope that my job will never stop because I don't know how to live otherwise.

I've been used to change, moving from Florida to Hawaii, Cuba, Budapest or Paris.

But this morning when I arrived to check in at work, getting ready to ask my boss what mission I had for me today, I saw huge suitcases in my locker room. They were much larger than usual and definitely not for a short stay. So I looked at the name on the suitcase. Mike Stevenson.

It only took me a few clicks to find out who this man was. Over time I had perfected my research skills and had become unbeatable in terms of speed and memory.

Mike Stevenson, a supposed bodyguard in a Greek villa at the home of a certain Mr. Styles whose function could not be found. Probably a spy in the service of a businessman.

I went to my boss's office to find out more about the mission and at 1 p.m. sharp I found myself on the terrace of a cafe at the Athens airport.

Quickly passing the pages of a local magazine, I started a cigarette while discreetly observing the details of the life of  Athens and the travels undertaken on this square. At precisely 2pm, a black sedan with tinted windows stopped in front of the café and a bald man with an imposing build came out before opening the passenger side door from which a charming man of about 25 years old got out.

His long curly brown hair was up in a bun and his skin had a perfect tan. He had a few freckles, a perfectly trimmed jaw, an attractive mouth and ocean blue eyes with long eyelashes. The perfect womanizer who was probably terribly annoying and pretentious as one could think of looking at her smug expression and superior looks.

He pinched his lips and raised his eyebrows with a stern, distrustful look while looking at me like an animal at the spa waiting for refuge. That was it, I already hated him.

- Mr. Styles. Said the bald man as he showed me the curly one with his hand.

- Mr. L. I said, taking care to reach out my hand to Mr. Styles to greet him.

The curly-headed man seemed offended but still took my hand in greeting me.

- Your boss told me that you are the best man in the agency. Is it true?

- I think I am.

- I need you to be sure.

- I'm definitely the best part of the agency, which itself is the best agency in the whole world. So that makes me the best liar and usurper in the world. Will that be enough for you?