Ring, ring, ring.
All the machines came to a halt as the factory's closing bell echoed through the vast space.
Checks and papers fluttered in the air like a storm, chaotic yet grand. In the midst of the mess, a figure stood up, illuminated by a soft yellow spotlight. His body, drenched in sweat, glistened in the light, showing the muscles beneath. His tousled brown curls framed his face, giving him an effortlessly lazy look.
He looked like a god.
For a brief moment, just a split second, hearts and souls were drawn into a black hole. This was a movie moment—more breathtaking than plot, performance, or dialogue.
"Carl?"
Frank Jr. froze, unable to believe his eyes.
"Carl!"
A smile spread across his face—a genuine, heartfelt joy that made the whole world seem brighter.
He stepped forward, arms raised high.
"Merry Christmas!"
The smile was wide and filled with happiness.
"We always talk on Christmas, don't we? How does it feel? Every Christmas, I speak to you, Carl."
Yes, for three consecutive years, on three consecutive Christmas Eves, Frank Jr. and Carl had been there for each other.
And they only had each other.
Carl, however, wasn't amused. "Put on your clothes, Frank. You're under arrest."
Carl informed Frank Jr. that more than twenty French officers had the place surrounded. But he requested to personally cuff Frank Jr., so the others stayed outside while he came in alone.
Clearly, Frank Jr. didn't believe him. Twenty officers working on Christmas Eve? It sounded too ridiculous to be true. But since there were no windows, Frank Jr. went to check the door.
Carl stopped him, warning that any movement without his signal would get them shot. He handed over the handcuffs, telling Frank Jr. to surrender.
Frank Jr. laughed, thinking Carl had come alone, without backup.
"If you want to catch me, you'll have to do it yourself."
The phone in the factory rang. Carl picked it up. It was Officer Luke from the Marseille police, telling them they had one minute to get out.
Still, Frank Jr. didn't believe it. He figured Carl had timed the hotel's front desk to make the call. He was convinced Carl was alone.
Frank Jr. continued stuffing scattered checks into his pockets, circling around the factory with a pile of them in his arms, ready to make a break for it.
"Frank, Frank, you need to believe me," Carl called out.
"They're embarrassed. They're angry. You robbed their banks, stole their money, and lived in their country. I told you it would come to this. There's no other way out."
As Carl watched Frank Jr. prepare to run for the door, he grew desperate. "Don't make a mistake."
Frank Jr. clutched the checks tightly, using every ounce of strength, as if they were his last lifeline. "This is good, Carl. You know? Keep making things up until they become real."
Frank Jr. refused to meet Carl's eyes and lunged toward the door.
"They'll kill you," Carl shouted.
Frank Jr. froze.
Carl continued, "If you go out that door, they will kill you."
Frank Jr. panted heavily, finally turning around. A single beam of light illuminated his eyes—still clear and bright, though bloodshot and weary.
He looked at Carl, his voice trembling with a hint of plea, "Is it true?"
Carl stood there, meeting his gaze, nodding gently. "Yes."
Frank Jr. walked back, still clutching the checks, edging closer to Carl, trying to see the truth in his eyes. "Do you have children, Carl?"
Carl swallowed, "I have a four-year-old daughter."
Frank Jr. pressed on, "Do you swear on her?"
"You swear?"
Step by step, Frank Jr. inched closer, finally releasing his hold. His arms fell, exhausted, and the checks scattered across the floor once again.
"You swear?"
At last, Carl grabbed Frank Jr.'s outstretched hand, nodding solemnly, and handed him the cuffs.
Frank Jr. looked up at Carl, his tired, confused eyes studying him closely. In the background, Christmas carolers sang, their voices holy and pure. But the winter air left behind was cold and desolate, choking him with loneliness.
Time froze.
Just a split second, and the movie shone again.
Then.
Frank Jr. cuffed himself.
Bang.
Carl pushed open the door with Frank Jr. at his side, but the streets outside were silent and peaceful. There wasn't a single police officer in sight on the cold, empty winter night.
Frank Jr. laughed—not out of anger, but genuine amusement. He looked up at Carl, "Nice performance, Carl."
But before Carl could respond, police cars swarmed in from all directions. In less than three seconds, they were completely surrounded.
French officers shouted orders in French, their guns aimed at Frank Jr.
Carl insisted the situation was under control, but it was no use. No one listened to him.
The French police ignored Carl, forcibly taking Frank Jr. away. Carl kept trying to make his voice heard, "I need it on record—Frank Abagnale surrendered voluntarily."
"Hey, I need you to record this."
"Where are you taking him? I'm supposed to go with you. Where are you taking him? Let me—let me get in the car."
Carl's voice was drowned out in the chaos.
Frank Jr., curled up in fear, his blue eyes full of helplessness, kept searching for something—anything—but found no focus.
Then he saw the choir outside the church.
The choir was still singing their holy songs, but their eyes were wary and distant, looking at him as if he were a monster.
Frank Jr. froze. He just froze.
Carl squeezed through the crowd, "Don't worry, Frank. I'll get you extradited back to the States. Don't worry."
But the French police paid no attention to Carl, and they drove away.
In 1969, on a flight from Paris to New York.
Frank Jr. could see New York in the distance, and instead of feeling nervous, he felt excited.
"Carl, remember, once we land, I need to call my dad. I just want to talk to him before he sees anything on TV or hears about it."
But Carl froze, his face tense.
After a pause, Carl unbuckled his seatbelt and moved from the aisle seat to the middle, closer to Frank Jr. Looking at Frank Jr.'s hopeful face, Carl spoke softly, "Frank, your father passed away."
Frank Jr. was stunned.
"I'm sorry. I didn't want to say anything until we got home."
"He… he fell down the stairs at Grand Central while rushing to catch a train. I didn't want to tell you myself."
Carl couldn't even look Frank Jr. in the eye.
Finally, Frank Jr. turned to Carl with a small smile, "You're lying, right? Carl, this joke isn't funny. You said I could talk to him."
"Carl, how could you lie like that? How dare you!"
Anger gripped his heart.
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