Vale was a thief.
Not a good one. Not a lucky one. Just a stubborn one.
He wanted to be filthy rich without working for it, and he believed—truly believed—that the world rewarded the wrong people. He had been educated once. Long enough to decide it was useless. Education taught patience, obedience, and waiting for permission. Vale wanted none of that. He dropped out halfway through his semester and began learning the only skill that made sense to him: stealing.
It went badly.
Every robbery ended the same way. A wrong step. A late escape. A guard who looked in the wrong direction at the right time. Once, they caught him so brutally that he woke up inside a dust bin, aching and half-buried under refuse. Someone in the town had decided that was where he belonged.
At night, alone in his room, Vale sometimes wondered how close a man could come to disappearing without actually dying.
Still, he kept going.
He sat on his sofa most evenings, beer in hand, watching the news—not for entertainment, but for survival. Every robbery report was a warning. Every flashing siren marked a place to avoid. He kept a folded map on his wall, inked with circles and crossed-out streets.
"Still alive," he muttered one night, lifting his bottle. "That counts for something."
He studied the map, eyes drifting toward a bank before shaking his head. Too big. Too loud. Not yet.
He slept.
Morning came with dry air and pale light. Vale opened his wooden door and inhaled deeply.
The day felt almost kind.
He dressed well despite being poor—pressed clothes, clean shoes, the look of someone with purpose. People trusted appearances. It made moving easier.
Hunger drove him to the streets. In a park, he spotted an old man sitting comfortably in a luxury car, unwrapping a burger. Vale approached from behind, brushed the man's shoulder, and snatched the food in one smooth motion.
A crow cried overhead. Something wet splattered.
The old man turned just as Vale took a bite.
"I'm a delivery agent," Vale said, already running.
A walking stick flew past his ear.
"Ow," Vale muttered. "That's about right."
The same thing, every day.
That night, he chose differently.
Ten miles from his room stood a quiet house, wealthy but careless. Vale pulled on a ski mask and started walking. Night had always belonged to him. Moonlight softened edges. Wind erased footprints. Everything felt unreal, almost forgiving.
He climbed the wall, heart hammering. A dog stirred—only a puppy. Vale exhaled. He dropped onto the sunshade, slipped the door open with a pin, and stepped inside.
Silence.
The man in the bedroom snored.
Vale moved slowly, counting breaths. He reached beneath the pillow. Something round. Cold.
Don't wake up.
He slid the key free, crossed the room, and opened the locker.
Money.
Stacks of it.
For a moment, Vale forgot to breathe.
"Thank you," he whispered—to the dark, to the world, to anyone listening.
He stuffed the cash into his bag and escaped the way he came, vaulting the wall and landing hard. Pain flared across his shoulder. He laughed breathlessly.
"I did it."
Then the pain didn't fade.
It spread.
His veins burned. His heart slammed harder than it ever had. The air felt wrong—thick, heavy, resisting him. Vale staggered, vision blurring, blood rushing like it was being pulled somewhere it didn't belong.
Something inside him shifted.
Cracked.
Accepted.
Vale fell to his knees, clutching his chest as the world tilted.
And somewhere—deep, unseen—something acknowledged what he had taken.