The sirens came first.
They wailed in the distance like wolves closing in on wounded prey, growing louder and sharper until they screeched outside the grand gates of the Central Reserve Bank. Blue and red lights painted the marble walls in chaotic strokes. Armed policemen fanned out, their boots stomping in rhythm, rifles raised, fingers tense on triggers. Within minutes, the entire street had been locked down. Helicopters thumped overhead, casting long shadows through the glass windows.
Inside, the hostages huddled together under the eyes of masked men. The air carried a cocktail of fear and adrenaline. Some cried softly. Some stared blankly at the floor. The director of the bank, a stout man in a three-piece suit, kept dabbing his forehead with a silk handkerchief though the room wasn't hot.
And in the middle of it all, he stepped forward.
The man who had been quiet since the heist began. Calm, calculated, like he had the entire script written out in his head already. He wore the crimson jumpsuit like the others, but what separated him was the mask.
The Dali mask.
That haunting grin, thin mustache, hollowed eyes — a mask that wasn't just a disguise but a statement. A mask that told the world: this is bigger than a robbery.
He moved to the center, snapped his fingers, and one of his team members rolled forward a flat-screen TV connected to cables and wires. Another handed him a microphone. The hostages watched in confusion, while his own men stood silently like statues.
He pressed a button. The TV flickered to life, its screen divided between dozens of camera angles: the hostages, the vault, the masked team, the corridors. Surveillance he had hijacked. Then, with another click, the broadcast went live, streaming to every channel the police were monitoring outside.
The Professor tilted his head, his voice calm but cold, amplified through the speakers:
"Good evening, officers. Citizens watching from home. Allow me to introduce myself."
The camera zoomed slightly, catching the eerie blank smile of the Dali mask.
"You can call me… The Professor."
Murmurs rippled through the police barricade outside. Some officers exchanged confused glances. One senior inspector, gray at the temples with an iron jawline, leaned forward toward the screen set up in the command tent.
"Does this guy think he's in a movie? What is this, Money Heist?"
The Professor didn't hesitate. He chuckled softly, the sound filtered through the speakers. Then he leaned in close to the camera, tilting his mask just enough for the hollow eyes to dominate the frame.
"Yes."
And with that, he snapped his fingers. The broadcast cut off instantly. The screen went black. The silence that followed was heavier than a gunshot.
Inside the bank, the hostages trembled, whispering frantically. The director raised his voice, trying to sound braver than he was: "You… you won't get away with this. The government—"
The Professor turned his head slowly toward him. The mask grinned even wider under the dim lights. He strolled over until he stood just a foot away, his presence suffocating in its calmness.
"Director, I think you misunderstand. We are not here to 'get away with anything.' We are here to reclaim something that does not belong to you, or to your government, or to any one person. We are here for the gold."
The word hung in the air like a spell.
Gasps erupted from the hostages. Even some of his own crew members stiffened, as though reminded of the magnitude of their mission.
The Professor continued, his tone smooth, deliberate, almost like a lecturer at a university podium:
"Beneath this very bank lies something the world has ignored for decades. Gold. Buried underground, guarded by bureaucracy and greed. They say it belongs to the nation, but in truth, it belongs to no one. We are not here to hurt you. We are not here to take your lives. We are here to take what is rightfully free — what belongs to no one."
He spread his hands theatrically, the Dali mask gleaming under the ceiling lights.
One of the younger hostages, maybe twenty-two, whispered, "He's crazy…"
But another, an older man with weary eyes, muttered, "Or maybe… he's right."
The Professor's team fanned out. Two masked figures — his trusted lieutenants — escorted the director and a handful of hostages to the vault's viewing chamber. The heavy steel doors loomed like a mountain. The Professor walked alongside them, narrating as though giving a guided tour.
"Every story needs an antagonist. The police outside believe they are the heroes, and we, the villains. But I don't believe in such simple stories. Today, ladies and gentlemen, you are part of something far greater than a robbery. You are witnesses to a revolution."
His words were sharp, but his body language remained calm, almost disarming.
Back outside, the inspector slammed his fist on the table. "This man thinks he's clever, turning a crime into a circus act. Shut down his broadcast lines. Now."
A technician stuttered, "Sir, we already tried. He's running through six different proxies, bouncing off satellites we can't touch. It's like… it's like he predicted every counter-move before we even thought of it."
The inspector cursed under his breath.
Back inside the bank, The Professor gave a final statement to the hostages. He placed a hand gently — almost respectfully — on the director's shoulder.
"I don't expect you to understand me today. But one day, perhaps, you'll tell your grandchildren that you were here when it began. You saw the masks. You heard the truth. And you lived, because unlike what the world will call us, we are not monsters. We are visionaries."
He snapped his fingers again. His men locked the chamber doors, securing the hostages in one section while the others began setting up equipment near the underground access point. Drills, explosives, cables — everything was already waiting, smuggled in piece by piece over months of preparation.
The Professor walked back to the main hall, his mind ticking like a chess clock. He paused, looking at the trembling crowd, then spoke in a calm, almost soothing voice:
"Remember this. We are not here to take lives. Only gold. The rest… is just noise."
The Dali mask's grin never faltered.
And as the sound of drills started echoing through the marble halls, the world outside braced itself for the beginning of a story they could no longer control.