jayden ♡'s matthew

✑ 𝓇𝑜𝓃𝒾𝓃 | @.𝑔𝑜𝓇𝑒𝒷𝑜y 

"The devil doesn't pick locks. He makes the lock wish it was never built."

Ronin's Role: Infiltration & Distraction Specialist

The mark is Elias Vancroft, a tech billionaire, data broker, and the kind of man who sells people's private information to the highest bidder without losing a second of sleep. His penthouse sits atop a glass tower in the financial district, seventy stories of "unbreachable" security that he brags about at every investor meeting.

Ronin has been watching this building for three weeks. He knows which guards vape on their breaks, which elevator has the faulty sensor and where Vancroft keeps his "real" vault, the one with the offshore account ledgers, the blackmail material, the leverage in a sub-basement that doesn't officially exist.

What Ronin doesn't have is a distraction.

Not a regular one. Not a fire alarm or a fake emergency. He needs something messy. Something that pulls security away from the sub-basement while he works his magic.

And then you show up.

You've been casing the 47th floor for two hours.

The accounting firm that leases this space handles Vancroft's books, the legitimate books, the ones he shows auditors. You're after the discrepancy files. The real numbers. The ones that live on a server tucked behind a fake wall in the partner's corner office.

You're good at this. You learned lockpicking from your uncle and social engineering from years of being underestimated. Tonight, you're wearing a janitor's uniform that fits just loose enough to hide your tools, a lanyard with a cloned badge, and an expression that says I am supposed to be here, don't look at me twice.

The server room door clicks open under your pick.

You step inside and immediately trip over something warm and alive.

"Shh—"

A hand clamps over your mouth. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to make the point. You're pressed against the wall before you can blink, your back to the cold metal, a lean body pinning you in place.

"Don't scream," a voice murmurs, amused, “Screamin' attracts attention, and I'm not tryin' to share my spotlight tonight."

Your eyes adjust to the dark.

He's taller than you. Messy burgundy hair falling over black eyes, a beanie with tiny devil horns sitting askew on his head. There's a snake draped around his neck like a living scarf — a small, dark-scaled thing with a forked tongue that flicks toward your face curiously.

His other hand is holding a crowbar.

"Well, well," he breathes, and his lips curl into something that's not quite a smile. "Look what wandered into my web."

He doesn't let go of you. His eyes looked over your face  and something changes in his expression. Interest, maybe. Or amusement. It's hard to tell in the dark.

“Janitor," he says, like he's tasting the word. "Cute. But janitors don't carry lockpicks that nice." His free hand pats your hip, finds the hidden pocket, and pulls out your kit. He holds it up between you, the metal tools glinting in the emergency light. "Professional. Clean. Quiet."

He tilts his head.

"You're not here for Vancroft's books, are you? Nah." He taps the crowbar against his thigh, thoughtful. "You're after somethin' in the basement. Same as me."

You don't answer. You can’t, after all, his hand is still over your mouth. He seems to remember this. His palm lifts, slowly, like he's giving you permission to speak but he's not sure he'll like what you say.

"I'm not here to fight you," you whisper.

His eyebrows go up. "That so?"

"I'm here for one file. A discrepancy report. That's it. I don't care about anything else in this building."

Ronin stares at you for a long moment then he laughs. "Aw, shit," he says, grinning now. "You're adorable. You broke into a billionaire's private server room for one file? That's like bringin' a butter knife to a gunfight." He shakes his head, still smiling. "I like you. You've got spirit."

He steps back, finally giving you space. But he doesn't put down the crowbar.

"Here's the thing, sweetheart," he says, leaning against the server rack like he owns it. "I'm about to make a lot of noise downstairs. Fireworks. Theatrics. The kinda chaos that gets every security guard in this building runnin' toward me like moths to a flame."

He points the crowbar at you, "You? You're gonna be in the basement. Three floors down, behind a door that technically doesn't exist. And while everyone's chasin' the devil, you're gonna grab that pretty little file you want and maybe, just maybe, you're gonna grab somethin' for me too."

He then pulls a small drive from his pocket, a black, unmarked, heavier than it looks and presses it into your palm. His fingers linger for a moment longer than necessary.

"The sub-basement vault. Vancroft's real one. There's a terminal inside, looks like a regular computer, but it's air-gapped. No network connection. That drive's got a script that'll run in thirty seconds, copy everything on that machine, and wipe itself clean after." He meets your eyes. 

"You get in, you plug it in, you get out. Don't look at the files. Don't touch anything else. The drive does the work."

"And what do you get?" you ask.

"Me?" He grins, all teeth. "I get to watch seventy floors of security chase their tails while I walk out the front door with a painting that hasn't been seen in public since 1942." He taps his chest. "Priorities, sweetheart."

He turns to leave then stops. Looks back at you over his shoulder.

"Oh, and one more thing." His voice drops, softer now. "When the alarms go off? Don't run. Walk. Walk like you belong there. Security's lookin' for panicked thieves, not bored janitors." He winks. "You got the uniform for a reason, yeah?"

And then he's gone, just swallowed by the shadows, crowbar swinging at his side.

Shockingly, you do what he says.

You hate that you do what he says. But there's something about the way he looked at you, like you were interesting, you weren't just a tool but a person he wanted to see succeed that makes you trust him.

You had no clue why, but you went with your gut.

The sub-basement door is exactly where he said it would be. The lock is complicated, but your picks are good. You're inside in ninety seconds.

The vault is smaller than you expected. Just cold and quiet The air tastes like metal and recycled oxygen. The terminal sits on a bare metal desk in the center of the room, glowing blue in the darkness.

You plug in the drive.

A progress bar appears. Twenty seconds. Fifteen. Ten.

The alarms start screaming at seven seconds.

Again, you did as you were told, you didn’t run, just walk. 

You made sure to tuck the drive into your pocket once finished, and you walk out of the sub-basement like you have every right to be there. The halls are filled with chaos. Guards are shouting into radios. Red lights are flashing. Someone pushes past you without a second glance.

You keep walking.

You're in the lobby when you see him again.

Ronin is standing by the revolving doors, hands in his pockets, whistling. His devil-horn beanie is slightly askew. 

He spots you and start grining.

"Told ya," he says, falling into step beside you. "Walk like you belong."

Outside, the night is cold and loud with sirens. Ronin doesn't seem to care. He pulls a set of keys from his pocket, clicks a button, and a beat-up black truck across the street flashes its lights.

"Ride's that way," he says, nodding toward it. "I ain't gonna offer—you seem like the type who likes their independence." He pauses then asked in a quietir tone, "But the drive?"

You hand it over.

He weighs it in his palm, then tucks it into his hoodie pocket 

"Good work tonight," he says. And he means it, there's no sarcasm, no performance. Just a thief acknowledging another thief's skill. "You got a name, janitor? Or should I just keep callin' you sweetheart?"

You tell him. His eyes crinkle at the corners.

"Pretty name," he says. "Fits you better than the uniform."

The sirens are getting closer. He should go. You both should.

But he doesn't move, well not yet anyway.

"Same time next week?" he asks, and there's something almost hopeful in his voice. "I know a place with worse security and better art. And I gotta say..." He tilts his head, black eyes glittering. "I wouldn't mind workin' with you again. You're quiet. I like quiet."

He backs toward his truck, still watching you. "Think about it, yeah?" He climbs into the driver's seat, engine rumbling to life. Ronin leans across the seat, grins at you through the open passenger window.

"Night, sweetheart. Don't let the cops catch ya."

And then he's gone, just peeling out of the alley, tires squealing, laughter trailing behind him like smoke.

Once you made it home, you don't sleep that night.

You keep thinking about the way he looked at you. The way he trusted you, a random ass stranger, someone who could have betrayed him in a hundred different ways.

Your phone buzzes at 3:17 AM.

Unknown Number: hope u made it home safe. 

Unknown Number: also i may have copied ur number off the drive before i wiped it. don't be mad.

Unknown Number: same time next week? 💀

You stare at the screen for a long time.

Then, against every instinct you have, you type back:

You: What's the address?

His response is immediate.

Unknown Number: that's my good thief. sending now. wear somethin' comfortable we're goin' through a window.

✑ 𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓁 | @.𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓁𝒾𝒸

"Why would I break in when I can be invited?"

Angel's Role: Social Engineering & Extraction

The mark is Lucien Moreau, who is heir to a crumbling luxury empire, collector of beautiful things, and alleged "legitimate businessman" whose fortune was built on the bones of bankrupt artists and stolen intellectual property. 

He's hosting a private auction tonight at his estate: a sprawling modern mansion perched on a cliff overlooking the city, every surface polished to a mirror shine, every guest handpicked from the upper crust of society's underbelly.

Angel has been cultivating this invitation for two months.

She's "Isabella Reyes" tonight, a so called reclusive heiress from a fabricated South American family, newly arrived in the city, dripping in wealth and the kind of bored, elegant cruelty that makes old money nervous. 

The pearls around her neck are real. Her dress, floor-length black velvet, slit to the thigh, backless to the waist, funny enough it’s borrowed from a boutique she'll may or may not return tomorrow. The diamond bracelet on her wrist was stolen during their last heist, and she wears it like she forgot it was there.

Her target is a painting. 

No, not for its beauty, it’s more for its secret. The canvas hides a microfilm containing the account numbers for Moreau's private black fund, the one he uses to launder money through offshore shell companies. The painting hangs in the east wing gallery, behind a keypad lock that requires a six-digit code.

Angel has the code. She got it last week from Moreau's personal assistant, who was very willing to share after three glasses of champagne and a whispered promise of… “something more."

What Angel doesn't have is a distraction during the extraction window, so the three minutes between guard rotations when the east wing goes dark.

And then she sees you.

Which, you're not supposed to be here either.

You're a cater waiter, or rather, you're wearing a cater waiter's uniform, carrying a silver tray of champagne glasses, and moving through the crowd with the practiced invisibility of someone who knows exactly how to not be seen. The real cater waiter is locked in a supply closet on the second floor. 

Which, he'll be fine. Maybe uncomfortable, confused, but fine.

Your target is the same as Angel’s, the microfilm but for different reasons. You're working for a journalist who's been trying to expose Moreau for years. The evidence in that painting could bring down his entire operation. 

You're not a thief by trade. You're a researcher who learned how to pick locks and knock out waiters because no one else would take the job.

You're nervous. Your palms are sweating, like you almost dropped the tray three times.

And you have a feeling someone is watching you.

You feel it before you see it, so you turn slowly and meet a pair of cyan eyes. She's beautiful. Stunning really. The kind of beautiful that makes you forget your own name for a second.

She's also looking at you like she knows exactly who you are.

"Champagne?" you offer, because it's the only thing your brain can produce.

Her lips curve, used more like weapon.

"Darling," she says, and her voice is honey over broken glass, "you're holding the tray wrong. The weight should be on your fingertips, not your palms. You'll strain your wrists." She reaches out and adjusts your grip with two fingers, professional and rather intimate. "There. Much better."

You blink. “I—thank you?"

"Don't thank me yet." She takes a glass from the tray, raises it to her lips, and watches you over the rim. "You're here for the painting, aren't you? The little one in the east wing. The ugly one that doesn't match anything else in the collection."

Your blood goes cold. "I don't—"

"Shh." She presses a finger to your lips, "Don't lie to me. I hate liars. And I knew the moment I saw you that you were a fraud." Her eyes glitter, “Your shoes are wrong. Cater waiters wear non-slip soles. Yours are leather. Expensive leather. The kind a broke journalist's assistant couldn't afford unless they'd saved up for months."

Fuck, she knows. She knows everything.

"I'm not going to hurt you," she says, like she's reading your mind. "I'm not going to expose you. In fact..." She steps closer, close enough that you can smell her perfume, close to roses and vanilla. 

"I think we can help each other."

It wasn’t long before she pulls you into an alcove, which is a recessed window seat draped in velvet curtains, hidden from the main party. The champagne tray is set aside. Your pulse is pounding in your ears.

Truly, you really shouldn’t be doing this but you stuck now.

"The east wing gallery has a guard rotation," Angel says, pulling up a photo on her phone, showing a blueprint, marked with security checkpoints and timestamps. "Three minutes of darkness between shifts. That's our window. I have the keypad code. I know exactly where the painting hangs. What I don't have..." She looks at you, and something in her expression softens, "Is a second pair of eyes on the corridor."

"You want me to be a lookout."

"I want you to be mine." She says it simply, too directly. Like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I'll go in, retrieve the microfilm, and reset the painting. You'll stand at the end of the hall and warn me if anyone comes. Three minutes. In and out. We never met."

"And if something goes wrong?"

"Then you run." She says it like it's obvious. "You run, you don't look back, and you forget my face." She tilts her head, “But nothing's going to go wrong. Because I don't make mistakes, darling. And neither do you or you wouldn't have made it past the front door."

She holds out her hand. "Do we have a deal?"

…So you ended up accepting her plan.

She leads you through the party like you belong to her. One hand on your arm, her body angled toward you like you're a lover she's stealing away for a private moment. Guests glance at you, then look away. 

No one questions the heiress and her pretty companion.

The east wing corridor is empty when you arrive. Red ropes block the entrance, a small sign reading “PRIVATE — STAFF ONLY” hanging from a gold stanchion.

Angel steps over the rope like it doesn't exist.

"The guard will pass in forty seconds," she says, pulling a small device from her clutch — a keypad decoder, disguised as a lipstick tube. "I'll need two minutes inside. That gives you a sixty-second buffer." She turns to face you, and for a moment, her mask slips.

She looks emotionally tired. 

"If I'm not out in three minutes," she says quietly, "leave. Don't wait for me. Don't come looking for me. I've made my peace with bad exits, and I won't have your death on my conscience."

“Hey—"

Suddenly there’s noises nearby. Shit, the guard is coming.

She presses the decoder to the keypad. The lock clicks open.

"Forty seconds," she reminds you. "Don't make me wait."

And then she's through the door, and it closes behind her, and you're alone in the hallway with your racing heart and the sound of footsteps echoing from around the corner.

So, you do your job.

You stand at the end of the corridor, body angled toward the party, pretending to check your phone. The guard passes, who was a bored man in a cheap suit, barely glancing in your direction. You hold your breath until he disappears.

One minute passes, then two. It wasn’t long before the door opens at two minutes and forty-seven seconds. Angel slips out, the painting back in place behind her, her clutch slightly bulkier than before tucked under her arm. Her eyes find yours immediately. She nods and you fall into step beside her.

"Walk," she murmurs. "Don't run. Don't look back. Smile."

She doesn't take you to the front door, just upstairs through a staff corridor, past a service elevator, into a small dressing room that smells like perfume and old flowers. The window is open. A trellis of ivy climbs the wall outside, leading down to a garden path.

"The car's waiting behind the hedges," Angel says, already climbing onto the windowsill. Her heels somehow don't slip on the stone. "Black sedan. No plates. The driver won't ask questions."

"You have a driver?"

"I have people." She looks back at you, silhouetted against the night sky, and for a moment she looks like something out of a painting herself, just beautiful and untouchable and dangerous. "Coming?"

“I-I I have my own ride."

"I'm sure you do." She doesn't sound convinced. "But my ride is faster, and there are three police cruisers heading toward the front gate as we speak. Moreau's security system is more sensitive than I anticipated." She holds out her hand. "Last chance, darling. Come with me, or explain to the officers why you're wearing a cater waiter's uniform with no ID badge."

You take her hand.

She pulls you onto the windowsill, her grip firm, her body warm against yours for just a moment. Then she's climbing down the ivy and you're following, your heart in your throat, your shoes slipping on the leaves.

The sedan is exactly where she said it would be. The back door opens before you reach it. A hand pulls you inside.

Angel slides in beside you, smooths her dress, and checks her reflection in a compact mirror.

"Drive," she says.

During the car ride, you and her don't speak for the first ten minutes. The city lights blur past the window. Angel is quiet beside you, her head tilted back against the seat, her eyes closed. The microfilm or whatever she took from the painting  is still tucked into her clutch, safe and secure.

"You're not going to ask what I took?" she says finally, without opening her eyes.

"You're not going to tell me."

A smile curves her lips. "Clever."

She opens her eyes and looks at you in a way she hasn't all night. "You did well tonight," she says quietly. "Better than I expected. Most people freeze when I look at them like that. You just... offered me champagne." She laughs, soft and surprised. "I liked that."

The car pulls up to a corner. Your apartment is two blocks away.

"I should—“

"I know." She reaches across and presses something into your hand, feels and looks like a business card, black with silver lettering. Just a phone number. No name. "If you ever need work, well real work call me. I can't promise it'll be safe. But I can promise it'll be interesting."

You look at the card then her. "Why are you helping me?"

She tilts her head, considering. "Because you reminded me that not everyone in this world is a monster," she says. "Some people are just... trying to do the right thing. Even if they're terrible at it." She nods toward the door. "Go. Before I change my mind."

You open the door, feeling the night air is cold on your face. 

"Angel?"

"Yes, darling?"

"I hope you get what you're looking for."

She smiles, "So do I."

The door closes. The sedan pulls away. You stand on the corner, watching the taillights disappear, the business card warm in your palm.

Your phone buzzes at 12:47 AM.

Unknown Number: check your mail slot. there's something there for you. consider it a thank-you gift.

You check, first seeing a small envelope. Inside, a flash drive and a handwritten note on heavy, cream-colored paper.

"For your journalist. The truth won't set you free — but it might make the bastards sweat."

— A.

✑ 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝒶𝓀𝒾 | @.𝒽𝒾𝓉𝓂𝑒𝓊𝓅𝓅𝓅

"This isn't a getaway—it's an ASSASSINATION VACATION... wait, wrong file. I mean THIEF VACATION!"

Misaki's Role: Extraction & Chaos Driver

The target is the Crystalline, so it’s a private luxury train that runs once a year from the capital to the coast, carrying the wealthiest passengers in the country and, more importantly, their valuables. 

The train is a moving fortress: armed guards, biometric locks on every cabin, and a "secure cargo car" that supposedly hasn't been breached in twenty years.

Misaki has been planning this heist for exactly forty-eight hours.

Not because it took that long to plan, it’s because they just found out about the train yesterday and immediately declared it an "emergency vacation." Their logic: if you're going to steal something, why not do it on a luxury train with a complimentary breakfast bar?

The crew's actual planner, V explicitly told Misaki not to do this alone. "Wait for backup," he said. "The security is too sophisticated for a solo operation."

However, what Misaki heard "the security is too sophisticated for a solo operation" and translated it as "this is going to be SO FUN."

Their target is a necklace. The Coeur de Minuit, in English the Midnight Heart, a black diamond pendant once owned by a murdered heiress, currently in the possession of a tech CEO who definitely didn't acquire it legally. It's in the cargo car, in a glass case with a pressure sensor and a laser grid.

So, Misaki has a plan. A very bad one.

But they don’t know that yet.

What Misaki also doesn't know is that someone else is on this train. Someone with the same target, a completely different approach, and absolutely zero desire to share the spotlight.

That someone is you.

The train is hurtling through moonlit countryside, wheels clacking against the tracks in a steady pace. The first-class passenger cars are quiet, filled with the most of wealthy guests are asleep or pretending to be, lulled by the motion and the complimentary champagne.

You are not asleep.

You are in the ventilation shaft above the cargo car, wearing all black, your body pressed flat against the cold metal, a small laser cutter humming in your gloved hand. You've been planning this for months. Every detail. Every contingency. You know the guard rotations. You know the biometric lock's blind spots. You know exactly how to disable the pressure sensor without triggering the alarm.

If you couldn’t tell by now, you are a professional.

The cargo car is directly below you. You can see it through the vent grate, the glass case, the black diamond glittering under the security lights, the laser grid humming softly in the dark.

You're about to cut the grate when something slams into the side of the train.

The whole car lurches. Your head—which felt like it cracks against the metal. The laser cutter slips from your hand and clatters down the shaft, disappearing into the dark.

"What the—" CRASH.

The emergency exit door on the opposite end of the cargo car bursts open, not with a key or a code, but with the force of a battering ram. A figure tumbles through, rolls across the floor, and springs up like nothing happened.

They're also dressed in black, hair is a messy explosion of dark navy with a crimson streak in the bangs. Star-shaped clips glitter in the dim light. And some reason holding a drone controller in one hand and a kazoo in the other.

"HA!" the figure shouts, spinning in a circle. "TOLD YOU I COULD GET IN! SUCK IT, V!"

You were stuck in disbelief and shock. 

Somehow this chaotic disaster of a human being is standing in the middle of the most secure room on the train without triggering a single sensor.

You stare through the vent grate, mouth open.

The person, Misaki, though you don't know that yet — glances up at the ceiling and waves. "Hi, vent friend! You gonna come down, or are you just gonna watch? 'Cause either's cool, but I gotta warn you, I’m about to do something really stupid, and you don't wanna miss it!"

You drop down from the vent because apparently this is your life now and land in a crouch behind a stack of cargo crates. Misaki bounces on their heels, grinning like you're an old friend they haven't seen in years.

"OKAY so here's the thing!" They talk at approximately the speed of sound. "I need the necklace, you know the big shiny one in the case. BUT the case has a pressure sensor AND a laser grid AND I think a heat sensor 'cause it's bougie like that. I was gonna just smash it with a crowbar, who I borrowed Ronin's, don't tell him  but then I saw you in the vent and I was like 'THAT PERSON LOOKS LIKE THEY KNOW WHAT THEY'RE DOING' and I figured—"

"Slow down," you hiss. "You're going to wake the whole train."

"CAN'T. I'm on a caffeine high and also I might have accidentally drunk some of the conductor's energy drink? It was in an unmarked bottle. Very irresponsible of him." Misaki doesn't stop moving, tapping fingers, bouncing on their heels. "OKAY SO. Here's my proposal oh wait, that's a business word, I mean HERE'S MY PLAN—“

They grab your shoulders and pull you close, their star-shaped pupils gleaming in the dark.

"You disable the sensors. I grab the necklace. We run like HELL and split the reward. YES OR YES?"

"There's no 'or' in that question."

"I KNOW! IT'S MY BEST QUALITY!"

You should say no.

You should say no. This is insane. Like this person is insane. The train is full of guards, the cargo car is a death trap, and you've spent months planning a quiet, clean extraction that this chaos goblin has just turned into a spectacle.

But Misaki is looking at you like you're the answer to a question they didn't know they were asking. Like you're interesting. Like you're fun.

And against every instinct you have, you say: 

"Show me the sensor layout."

Misaki's face lights up like a Christmas tree. "BESTIE! I KNEW IT! OKAY OKAY OKAY—“

They pull out their phone, which has a cracked screen, rainbow case, stickers everywhere and show you a blurry photo of the cargo car's security schematic. It's barely legible. There are doodles in the margins. One of them is a stick figure holding a kazoo.

"I took this through a window," Misaki explains. "The guard was sleeping, so I had to be really quiet. I stepped on a creaky floorboard and he SNORTED and I almost died. Anyway! The sensors are here, here, and here—“ They pointed at the screen, "The laser grid has a blind spot in the top left corner 'cause the maintenance guy was lazy. I can get the necklace from there if you disable the pressure plate."

"How do you know all this?"

"I asked the maintenance guy! He was very nice. I told him I was writing a book about train security and he gave me the whole tour." Misaki beams. "People love talking about themselves. It's my favorite manipulation tactic."

You stare at them.

"...That's not manipulation. That's just being friendly."

“There’s a difference?”

You didn’t answer, why? Because the next three minutes are the most chaotic of your life. You disable the pressure sensor with a bypass tool you built yourself while Misaki crawls under the laser grid, somehow missing every beam despite moving like a caffeinated squirrel and reaches the glass case.

"Got it!" they whisper-shout.

"The alarms—“

"I said GOT IT."

They pull the necklace from the case and the entire cargo car goes dark.

“Fuck. What did you do."

"NOTHING! I didn't do anything! That was—“ Their phone screen lights up their face, panicked. “—oh. OH. I may have told my drone to disable the power grid. As a distraction. BUT I DIDN'T THINK IT WOULD WORK THIS WELL!"

Footsteps echo from the corridor. Guards coming fast.

"RUN," you say.

"ALREADY RUNNING!"

You don't remember the next five minutes.

All you remember is just running and Misaki grabbing your hand, which was warm, gripping tight and dragging you through service corridors and baggage cars and through a dining car where people were still eating dinner.

"SORRY! EMERGENCY! NOTHING TO SEE HERE!" Misaki shouts, knocking over a waiter's tray. "WE'RE JUST LATE FOR A THING!"

You emerge onto the back platform of the train. The wind is screaming past. The tracks stretch out behind you, silver in the moonlight.

"WHERE'S YOUR RIDE?!" you shout over the noise.

Misaki grins wide, wild, terrifying. "ABOUT THAT —"

Suddenly, a car appears on the road parallel to the tracks. A beat-up sedan with matte black paint, matching speed with the train. The back door is already open.

"YOU HAVE A GETAWAY DRIVER?!"

"I HAVE A GETAWAY CAR! THE DRIVER IS ME!"

"THAT'S NOT BETTER!"

"IT'S FUNNER!" Then Misaki jumps. Like they jump from the moving train, still holding your hand, and you're falling — the wind screaming in your ears, the ground rushing up — and then you land on something soft. The back seat of the sedan. 

The door slams shut.

Misaki is already in the driver's seat, engine roaring, tires squealing. "SEATBELT!" they scream.

"WHY?!"

"BECAUSE I'M ABOUT TO DO A SICK DRIFT AND I DON'T WANT YOU TO DIE!" The car swerves off the road, onto a dirt path, through a fence, and into the night.

A few hours later, you’re parked in an abandoned gas station.

Misaki is sitting on the hood of the car, eating cup noodles straight from the container, the Coeur de Minuit hanging from their neck like a costume necklace. "So," they say, noodles dangling from their chopsticks. "That was fun, right?"

"You nearly got us killed."

“Yeah but we didn't die! That's a win in my book!" They slurp the noodles, then offer you the container. "Want some? It's shrimp. I think. The label was in a different language."

You stare at them. They stare back, completely unbothered.

"...Who are you?"

Misaki grins, soft this time, almost shy, looks lik all that energy finally calmed down.

“well, I’m the person who just stole a million-dollar necklace with a stranger they met in a ventilation shaft," they say. "And I gotta say —" They set down the noodles and hold out their hand. "Best heist ever. I'm Misaki. You?"

You tell them your name.

They repeat it, like they're tasting it, then nod. "Cool name. Cooler than mine. I'm just 'Misaki the Chaos Gremlin' according to my friends. Well, Ronin says that. Angel says 'that feral creature.' V says 'an unacceptable liability.'" They count on their fingers. "I have a lot of nicknames."

They pull something from their pocket, not the necklace, but a small plastic card. A business card, but handmade, with a hand-drawn star and a phone number written in glitter pen.

"This is for you," they say, pressing it into your palm. "If you ever wanna do this again. Steal stuff. Cause chaos. Eat noodles afterwards." They tilt their head. "I don't have a lot of friends who can keep up with me. But you? You almost kept up. That's rare, most can’t.”

You look at the card then look at them. "I almost got left on a moving train."

"YEAH but you didn't! I came back! I caught your hand and everything! That was very romantic, actually. I'm gonna put that in my memoirs."

"You have memoirs?"

"I will now."

Misaki hops off the hood, stretches, and points at you with their chopsticks. "Same time next week? I'm planning a museum heist. The security's insane. It's gonna be GREAT."

You should say no. Like deadass, say no.

But Misaki is grinning at you like you're already friends, and their hand is warm in yours, and the necklace is glittering around their neck like a promise.

"...What museum?"

Misaki's face lights up. "BESTIE! I KNEW IT! OKAY SO —"

They launch into a rambling explanation, waving their chopsticks for emphasis, and somewhere between the laser grids and the guard rotations and the very important detail about the janitor's closet on the third floor, you realize:

You're not saying no.

You're not even thinking about saying no.

You're thinking about cup noodles and getaway cars and the way Misaki's eyes sparkle when they talk about chaos.

And you're smiling for once.

Afterwards, when you got home, your phone buzzes at 2:34 AM.

Unknown Number: heyyyy bestie!!! 

Unknown Number: i put half the necklace money in your bag. don't ask how i knew where your bag was. it's a TRADE SECRET.

Unknown Number: also i may have named my drone after you. it's a big honor. don't let it go to your head.

Unknown Number: same time next week???? 👀👀👀

You: Send me the address.

Unknown Number: THAT'S MY BESTIE!!!!!!!!! sending now. wear something you can run in. we're going through a skylight!

✑ 𝓋 | @.𝒦𝟿

"I don't steal from the wealthy. I redistribute from the corrupt."

V's Role: Mastermind & Tactical Planner

The target is Blackwood Biological Solutions, a sprawling, high-security research facility disguised as a pharmaceutical warehouse on the outskirts of the city. To the public, they develop "cutting-edge veterinary medicine." 

To anyone ACTUALLY paying attention, they're one of the largest animal testing facilities on the continent, with a particular specialty in exotic species smuggled from black markets around the world.

V has been watching this facility for nine months.

Not for the money. Not for the thrill. For the animals, of course.

His source was from a whistleblower who worked in the facility's lower levels, provided detailed schematics, security protocols, and a list of every creature currently being held in their sub-basement labs. 

Primates. Birds. Reptiles. Endangered species pulled from their habitats and shoved into cages the size of filing cabinets.

V doesn't steal for profit. He steals for purpose—in his words.

And tonight, his purpose is to empty every cage in that building and his plan is meticulous. 

Three phases: infiltration, liberation, and extraction. 

Each timed to the second. A truck waiting at the east loading dock, modified with temperature-controlled compartments and enough space for every crate. A veterinarian on standby at a sanctuary three hours away. A burner phone programmed with a single number to call when the animals are safe.

What V doesn't have is an extra set of hands.

The facility's lower levels require two people to open the main cage room, which has a dual-key system designed to prevent a single guard from accessing the animals alone. V has one key, stolen from a senior researcher three weeks ago. 

All he needs someone to turn the second.

He's been searching for a partner for this mission for six weeks. Everyone he approached was either incompetent, untrustworthy, or morally repugnant.

And then he found you.

Which, you didn't know what you were getting into.

You're an animal rights activist, a real one, not the performative social media kind. 

You've spent years infiltrating puppy mills, documenting factory farms, and rescuing animals from situations that would make most people weep. 

You're not a thief by trade but you’re a rescuer who learned how to pick locks and disable cameras because no one else would do the dirty work.

Tonight, you're at Blackwood Biological Solutions because a contact inside tipped you off about a shipment of macaques, about fifteen of them, imported illegally from Southeast Asia, scheduled for "testing" starting tomorrow morning.

You're alone and underprepared, just running on caffeine and rage. Somehow, you already disabled the external cameras and picked the lock on the loading dock door. 

You're standing in a dark corridor, heart pounding, trying to remember the layout your contact sketched on a napkin, when a voice speaks from the shadows behind you.

"You're early."

You spin quick, eyes locking on a figure steps out of the darkness, tall, broad-shouldered, his locs are pulled back from his face, and his eyes, sharp and green are watching you with an expression you can't quite read.

"I accounted for interference," he says, his voice low, British, measured. "I did not account for you."

Your hand moves toward the knife in your belt.

He notices and expression doesn't change. "If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it already." He tilts his head, studying you like a specimen under a microscope. "You're here for the macaques."

"How do you —"

"Your shoes." He nods toward your feet. "Trail runners, mud on the treads, worn unevenly on the left side. You favor your right leg, old injury, poorly healed. You move like someone who's spent time in rural environments, not urban ones. You're not a thief. You're a rescuer."

You swallow hard. "Who the hell are you?"

He holds up a small leather folio, not a badge, but something that looks like one. A laminated card with a symbol you don't recognize and the words ANIMAL LIBERATION FRONT of CONSULTANT printed in silver letters.

"My name is V," he says. "And I've been planning this operation for nine months. I have the schematics. I have the keys. I have a veterinarian on standby and a sanctuary that doesn't ask questions." He tucks the folio back into his coat. "What I don't have is a second set of hands for the dual-key system. And what I see..." His eyes look over you again, assessing. "Is someone who might be capable of following instructions."

He steps closer, only one step but it's enough to make your breath catch.

"The macaques are in sub-basement three. The door requires two keys turned simultaneously. I have one. You will turn the other." He holds out his hand — not to shake, but to offer. "In exchange, you will leave here with every animal in this facility, not just the primates. I don't want credit. I don't want thanks. I want results."

You stare at his hand. "Why me?"

"Because you're here…?” There was a pause. "And because you look like someone who couldn't sleep tonight knowing these animals were still in cages."

He's not wrong.

You take his hand, which his is grip is firm and brief, like he's already calculating the exact moment he'll need to let go.

"Follow me," he says. "Stay close. Don't speak unless spoken to. And for the love of God—“ He glances at your feet. “—try to walk more quietly. You sound like a wounded elephant."

Okay, rude much.

Anyway, you watched V moves through the facility like a ghost. He knows every corner, every camera blind spot, every guard rotation down to the second. He leads you through corridors and stairwells and through a maintenance tunnel, his voice a low murmur in your ear, guiding you step by step.

"Stop. Guard approaching. Don't move nor breathe."

You freeze, your eyes catch flashlight beam sweeps past the corner where you're pressed against the wall, V's body angled in front of yours, blocking you from view. You can smell his cologne, cedar and something clean, close like rain.

It wasn’t long before the guard passes. “Let’s move.”

The sub-basement is colder than the rest of the facility. The air smells like antiseptic and fear, you can smell it, the animal terror that hangs in the air, cause your chest tightens.

V notices.

"Don't," he says quietly. "Feelings are a luxury you cannot afford right now. Focus on the mission. The animals will have time to heal after we get them out."

The cage room door looms ahead held two keyholes on either side. 

V pulls a key from his coat and hands you the second. "On my count," he says. "Three. Two. One. Turn."

Once lock clicks open, the room beyond is worse than you imagined.

Cages stacked to the ceiling. Primates in the corner, huddled together, their eyes wide and wild. Birds in the next row, feathers dull, beaks open in silent distress. Reptiles in heated enclosures, barely moving. And in the back, a separate room, visible through a glass window of dogs inside. Dozens of them. Beagles, mostly. Their ribs showing through patchy fur.

Then we caught your attention was V's jaw tightens, like you see the anger underneath. "We have forty-three minutes until the next guard rotation," he says. "Start with the primates. They're the most stressed. I'll handle the dogs."

He presses a small tool into your hand, a cage opener, very much custom-made.

"Don't talk to them," he says. "Don't make eye contact. Just open the doors and move to the next, be quick. They'll follow once they realize they're free." He looks at you — really looks at you, green eyes steady. "Can you do that?"

You nod.

"Good." He turns toward the dog room, then pauses. Looks back over his shoulder. "And... thank you. For being here. I know you didn't have to be."

Then he's gone through the glass door, into the room full of caged beagles, his hands already working the first lock.

So in the next thirty minutes are the most exhausting of your life.

You open cage after cage, primates first, then birds, then reptiles. The animals are confused at first, reluctant to leave the only spaces they've known. But then the first macaque steps out of its cage, takes a hesitant step toward the corridor, and runs and the others follow.

Behind you, you overhear V's voice "Easy. Easy now. You're safe. I'm not going to hurt you."

You glance through the glass window.

V is on his knees in the middle of the dog room, surrounded by beagles. They're climbing all over him, licking his face, wagging their tails, crying and he's letting them. His coat is covered in paw prints. His locs are being gentle tugged by an enthusiastic spaniel.

He looks up, catches you watching, and his expression for just a moment is almost embarrassed.

"They're... affectionate," he says stiffly.

You bite back a smile. “Aww they like you."

"Unfortunate. I prefer working alone." But he doesn't push them away.

Soon, the extraction goes wrong at minute thirty-two.

Someone trips an alarm, a sensor you didn't see or wire V didn't account for and the facility erupts into chaos. Red lights. Screaming sirens. Footsteps pounding toward the sub-basement.

V is at your side in seconds, his hand on your arm, pulling you toward the loading dock.

"Move. Now."

"But the animals—“

"They're already moving. They know where the exit is. We trained for this."

"Trained???“

"Not the time." The loading dock door is open. The truck is waiting — a massive refrigerated vehicle, its back doors already wide. And inside, already climbing into the crates, are the animals. 

The primates, birds, reptiles and dogs.

V herds them in like a shepherd, calm and efficient, his voice never rising above a murmur. "Inside. Quickly. You're safe. Inside."

You grab the last of the bird crates, heave it into the truck, and slam the doors shut just as the first security guard rounds the corner.

V grabs your hand. "Run."

You don't remember climbing into the cab of the truck. You don't remember the engine starting, the tires squealing, the fence crumpling under the vehicle's weight.

You remember V's hand on yours and his voice in your ear.

"Breathe. We're out. We're out."

The truck barrels through the city streets, weaving between traffic, taking turns that make your stomach lurch. V drives with one hand, his other hand still holding yours and neither of you mentions it.

Twenty minutes later, the truck pulls into a warehouse on the outskirts of town.

The sanctuary veterinarian is waiting. Volunteers appear from nowhere, unloading crates, checking vitals, murmuring soft reassurances to the animals.

V stands apart from the chaos, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

You walk over to him. "You're not going to help?"

"I already did." He doesn't look at you. "My role is planning. Execution. Extraction. The rest..." He nods toward the volunteers. "The rest belongs to people who are better at softness than I am."

He's quiet for a moment then added "You did well tonight. Better than I expected."

"Thanks. I think."

He turns to look at you and something in his expression softens.  "I mean it." His voice is quieter now. "Most people freeze when things go wrong. You didn't. You kept moving. You kept working." He pauses. "That's rare."

He reaches into his coat and pulls out a small card. "This is my personal line,” he says. "Not the burner. Not the encrypted server. Me." He holds it out. "If you ever need help with a rescue, a mission, or just... a second pair of hands — call me.”

You take the card.

"Why are you giving me this?"

He considers the question. "Because you reminded me that some people still do this work for the right reasons," he says. "Not for money. Not for recognition. Because they can't stand the thought of animals suffering alone."

He looks toward the truck, where the last of the beagles is being carried inside, wrapped in a blanket, tail wagging weakly.

"I used to think I was alone in that," he says quietly. "Tonight, I learned otherwise."

Much later, the aftermath, you don't sleep that night.

You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, the black card warm on your nightstand. You keep thinking about V.

Then your phone buzzes suddenly at 4:17 AM.

Unknown Number: The sanctuary sent photos. All animals are stable. The beagles are eating.

Unknown Number: One of them, a small female with a brown eye and a blue eye, appears to have imprinted on me. She refuses to leave the crate I was sitting on.

Unknown Number: I have been informed that this is "adorable." I disagree.

A photo loads of V sitting cross-legged on the floor of the sanctuary, his trench coat laid out like a blanket, a small beagle curled up in his lap. His expression is profoundly uncomfortable.

You laugh out loud.

You: She likes you.

Unknown Number: Unacceptable. I am a professional.

Unknown Number: ...I may be keeping her.

You: Does she have a name?

There was a long pause of bubbles. Unknown Number: I was considering "Justice."

Unknown Number: But the veterinarian suggests "Lucky."

Unknown Number: I am accepting votes.

You: Lucky. Definitely Lucky.

Unknown Number: ...Noted.

Unknown Number: The next mission is a fur farm in the north. Three weeks from now. The operation will require a second set of hands.

Unknown Number: If you're available.

You look at the card on your nightstand. Look at the photo of V and the beagle. Smile.

You: Send me the details.

Unknown Number: I will.

Unknown Number: And... thank you. For tonight. For running when I told you to run. For not asking questions.

Unknown Number: For being there.

You stare at the screen for a long time then typed away.

You: Soo, same time next week?

His response was rather quick.

Unknown Number: I suppose, just wear better shoes for next time.

♤ — 𝓀𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ