Vale walked through the park on a bright Sunday morning, pretending to enjoy the weather while scanning for opportunity. Work was scarce these days.
Work, meaning money.
He noticed the watch immediately.
The man was distracted, laughing with his young son near an ice cream cart. The watch on his wrist was expensive—too clean, too deliberate. Limited edition, probably registered. Vale felt the familiar pull in his chest, subtle but unmistakable.
Not again, he thought.
But the instinct was already awake.
Vale approached the ice cream seller and murmured a quick request, slipping him a few bills. The seller hesitated only a second before nodding. Moments later, he rang his bell loudly and pushed his cart forward, cutting between the father and the child.
Chaos lasted exactly one breath.
Vale stepped in, fingers brushing the man's wrist. The clasp came loose smoothly. The watch slid into his palm.
Pain flared—sharp, sudden—but Vale swallowed it down. His expression didn't change. He kept walking, calm, controlled, as if nothing had happened. Behind him, the bell rang again.
He thanked the ice cream seller and left.
At home, Vale stared at the watch resting on his table. It felt heavier than it should have. Not physically—something deeper. He paced the room, thoughts colliding.
What if the gold was a mistake?What if that was luck?
He needed confirmation.
That evening, he walked into a watch dealer's shop and placed the watch on the counter.
The shopkeeper examined it carefully, then frowned.
"This is a limited edition," he said. "We'll need to verify ownership."
Vale nodded, relaxed. If nothing happened this time, then he could finally convince himself the gold incident had been a fluke.
The shopkeeper typed the serial number into his system.
His expression changed.
"…Registered owner," he read slowly, "…Vale."
Vale's pulse jumped.
The shopkeeper hesitated, eyes flicking up and down. "Strange," he muttered. "These watches are usually owned by collectors. People with records. Cars. Addresses."
He glanced at Vale again, uncertain.
"But legally," the man said finally, "it's yours."
Vale left the shop with cash in his pocket and dread crawling up his spine.
Two days later, a notice arrived.
Thank you for selling your limited-edition watch.We invite the registered owner to submit a long-term review at the listed address.
The envelope reached the other address first.
The real owner stared at it in confusion.
"That's not my address," he said quietly.
Anger followed confusion.
The man went straight to the dealer who had sold him the watch years earlier. They were friends. They checked the records together.
The serial number matched.
The ownership didn't.
"I didn't sell it," the man said. "It was stolen."
The dealer swallowed. "The system says it was sold. And this—" he turned the screen, "—this is the registered owner now."
They stood in silence.
Finally, the man straightened.
"Let's go," he said.
"Go where?"
"To that address."
His hands were shaking.
Vale felt it before the knock came.
That pressure in his chest.That warning.
Someone was coming.