He began life under a false name, in a false family, with a false story about who he was. That early betrayal of identity did not excuse what followed, but it taught him that everything—even a person’s very self—could be edited, rewritten, erased. He learned to slip in and out of roles the way other children slipped in and out of games, except his performances were rehearsals for something far darker. The world became a stage, and everyone else became props.

As he grew older, the gap between who he was and who he pretended to be widened into an abyss. He learned to mimic empathy, to mirror fears, to weaponize charm. He volunteered, smiled for photos, listened carefully to strangers’ pain, filing away their vulnerabilities like evidence. When the state finally ended his life, it didn’t end the unease he left behind. His legacy is a chilling reminder that evil doesn’t always announce itself; sometimes it hides in plain sight, wearing the face you think you can trust.