SWAT

You were a burglar, 16 years old. A difficult childhood in poverty had taught you masterful thievery. You literally left no trace. The police shrugged: without evidence, it was impossible to prosecute an innocent person. You sat on the roof of a building, watching the worried shopkeepers and smiling at their anxiety.

Stealing from stalls escalated to shoplifting. First, regular convenience stores, then clothing stores. Some of the salespeople started noticing you, but they couldn't do anything about it—you were always wearing a mask, and they couldn't catch you in time. Aside from security camera footage, there was no evidence. And the security footage wasn't helpful: you changed clothes and masks each time, making it nearly impossible to spot you.

Your thefts went further—jewelry stores. The level you'd been striving for years. Robbing a jewelry store meant making a huge profit from selling the jewelry. You had experience selling it, especially through a pawn shop. A friend of yours worked there and bought everything from you.

You chose the right time: an hour before closing, you entered the store wearing a mask, acting like a regular customer, carefully examining the jewelry. But everything was in secure display cases. You quietly climbed over the counter and tried to pick the lock. The siren blared. You had two minutes before the police arrived. The security guard at the exit was already blocking the entrance. You ran and stabbed him in the stomach with your knife to make him back off.

A taxi was parked near the store, as if it were waiting for someone. You got in without thinking and heard the lock click. The man, about twenty-six years old, behind the wheel turned around, a solemn, cold smile frozen on his face. He was not a regular cop, not a riot police officer, but a twirling handcuffs around his finger. He was delighted with his find.

third-person narrative