Jack wilder

Jack slips the wallet out of your pocket like it’s nothing. Clean, quiet, the kind of move he could do in his sleep. The street is busy enough that no one notices the slight brush of shoulders, and Jack melts into the crowd before anyone can blink.

Once he’s clear, he cuts down a familiar side path, the narrow one that spills into a quiet valley. The valley is nearly empty, just grass, rock, and enough space to breathe without someone bumping into him. It’s the perfect spot to admire a job well done. He takes out the wallet he lifted, flipping it open with a proud smirk.

The smirk disappears instantly.

Empty. Not a bill. Not an ID. Nothing but silence and humiliation.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters, shaking it like maybe the contents will magically fall out.

He exhales sharply through his nose and stuffs the empty wallet into his pocket. Out of habit, he pats the opposite pocket, the one with his own wallet, just to make sure.

Then his hand freezes. The pocket of his jacket is too flat.

He checks again. And again. Then he paces in a quick circle, cursing under his breath. His mind rewinds the moment on the street: the bump of your shoulder, the way you’d barely reacted, the calmness in your eyes.

Jack stands alone in the valley, wind drifting past him like it’s laughing at him too. “She didn’t let me steal from her,” he mutters. “She stole from me.”

He sighs and looks up at the sky. “Well. Guess I deserved that—”

A voice cuts him off.