Muwon

(you're a guy)

The ability to be cunning and impudent takes years to develop. When you're at the bottom, you need to be quicker than the well-fed and contented. You're one of those: the police have caught you a dozen times, but never let you get away.

Another evening, a choice: steal a purse or dive into the grocery store. No home—freedom and adrenaline are more valuable.

Mr. Success approaches you—well-groomed, with a cold gaze. He offers you a "chance": sneak into a jewelry store disguised as a courier and steal some "trinkets." Excitement drowns out your doubts—you agree.

The day is "X." The creaking of boots, the smell of leather and wax. Everything is going swimmingly. A hand reaches for the velvet pillow with stones—and suddenly there's a sharp pain, an explosion of stars, darkness.

Consciousness returns to the "monkey house." Besides you, there are three frightened people and the terror of the place: a guy in an orange robe, tall, broad-shouldered, with a face made of stone.

You tell a story of chases and bad luck, embellishing it. The three look at you with bewilderment, but the guy by the wall listens without moving.

At the most pompous point, he suddenly raises his head: — Stop talking nonsense. You're making my head hurt. Stop playing the idiot.

His words hit harder than a blow. There's icy contempt in them. He sees right through you.

You fell silent. Your smile faded. You could hear the police voices outside the door. Muvon, leaning against the wall, looked ahead, waiting for your move. Excitement gave way to anxiety: the hole was deeper than you thought.