Just how I liked it.
No alarms. No screaming grad students. Not even a flicker of psychic suspicion.
Stranger kept my face forgettable. Mystical Infiltration made sure no one was even thinking about faces to begin with.
I slipped out the same maintenance window I'd come through, dropped into the alley below, and landed soft.
Still invisible to memory. Still smooth in motion.
Still on the clock.
Because I wasn't heading home yet.
Second target of the day? Already scoped out.
A museum annex a few blocks away, under renovation. Temporarily closed to the public. Basic motion sensors, old locks, and exactly the kind of oversight that happens when a university committee forgets to check in for a few weeks.
It wasn't about stealing priceless artifacts. I wasn't trying to fund a black-market auction or anything.
No, this place had something better:
Gold.
Ornamental gold —maybe not 100% pure, but heavy enough, real enough, and most importantly: compact.
And if for some reason that didn't pan out?
Plan B was a nearby National Guard depot with outdated security and a side shed full of "we probably won't need these" gear.
Riot shields, gas masks, maybe a shotgun or two. In other words: the kind of place where even the janitor's utility belt might carry surprises.
I jogged through a side street, pace quick but quiet.
Spell still holding. No sign of attention snapping to me. Just the fog, the streetlights, and the quiet weight of momentum.
Tonight was practice, yeah.
But that didn't mean I had to go home empty-handed.
I adjusted the strap on my bag and smirked.
Let's see what else this city forgot to lock up.
The jog didn't last long.
Five minutes of alley-hopping and backstreet pacing brought me to the rear of the museum annex.
No cameras on this side—just a rust-stained service door, a pile of broken pallets, and a "Do Not Enter" sign that looked more like a suggestion.
Perfect.
I popped my earbuds in on the way—training wasn't over yet.
Something fast and syncopated, bouncing between Missy Elliott, and that one
Destiny's Child track that always tripped up my footwork.
By the time I reached the back entrance, my breathing was level, my flow stable.
Mystical, Infiltration soft and seamless around me, Stranger blanketing my face into harmless obscurity.
I paused at the door.
Tugged the earbuds out.
Not because I needed silence.
But because I was about to rob a museum.
And some things just deserved your full attention.
A fire door had been left propped open with a brick. The air carried the sharp bite of fresh paint—probably the only reason it wasn't shut. I pushed it wider, slipped through, and let it settle shut behind me.
Inside, the museum was dead quiet.
No tourists. No guards in sight. Just the low hum of security lights and the gentle echo of polished marble under rubber soles.
I moved slow.
Mystical Infiltration wrapped tight around me, Stranger humming low, twisting perception at the edges. I was already a non-threat. Now I just needed to stay that way.
I ducked through a staff corridor, skipped past a supply closet and a dusty break room, and slipped into the edge of the exhibition wing—Ancient Civilizations.
Jackpot.
Jewelry displays. Trade relics. Decorative ceremonial plates that just happened to be made from gold leaf over solid cores. Most of it was ornamental. Some of it? Real. Dense. Valuable.
I approached the first case—a decorative Aztec necklace. The tag read: Replica with original fragments. I tapped the gold at its center and focused.
Stored in new slot: Low-Purity Gold (18%).
Huh.
I moved on.
Next was a side alcove: Pre-Roman artifacts under faint lighting. In the center—small, blocky ingots behind glass.
Spanish colonial era. Recovered from shipwrecks.
I touched one, already bracing for junk.
Stored : Gold 88% purity, Stored in new slot
Better.
I picked up the pace. Each item responded smoothly:
Gold (72%) – Stack BGold (93%) – Stack BGold (43%) – New stack created Gold (29%) – Added to Stack CGold (60%) – Stack B
That's when I noticed the pattern.
The system wasn't mixing everything together. The higher purity gold grouped into one stack, but anything lower split off. I hadn't been told there was a cutoff, but it was obvious now: gold under a certain threshold—whatever it was—got sorted into its own pile. Like even the system had standards.
By the end, I had three stacks:
Stack B – High-Purity Gold (60–93%)Stack C – Low-Purity Gold (29–43%)Stack A – Decorative scrap (under 20%)
I briefly considered tossing Stack A—but hey, gold was gold.
Just three quiet chunks of wealth, sitting neatly in digital slots. Weightless. Ready.
I opened the inventory to take stock.
7 slots occupied.
Slot 1: Copper ShortswordSlot 2: Copper PickaxeSlot 3: Copper AxeSlot 4: Portable Generator Slot 5: Research Data (CD-R) x24Slot 6: Stack A – High-Purity Gold (60–93%)Slot 7: Stack B – Low-Purity Gold (29–43%)Slot 8: Stack C – Decorative Scrap Gold (<20%)
I organized them like that myself—made it easier to think in tiers. Cleaner. More efficient. The system might've sorted it automatically, but I preferred knowing exactly what was where.
So far, so good. But I wasn't done yet.
Gold was flashy, sure—but stones? Stones were versatile. Tradable. Enchantable. Sometimes overlooked, sometimes priceless.
I scanned the room again. Display cases lined the walls—many held carvings or metalwork, but one off to the side read: "Ritual Offerings – Pre-Columbian." Polished jade, flecks of obsidian, hints of turquoise.
Bingo.
A small jade fragment sat loosely in the corner of a ceremonial necklace, its wire mount half snapped.
"I tapped it. The fragment vanished with a silent shift—clean, seamless.
Stored : Jade Fragment – Natural.
Stored in Slot 9.
Nice.
Real stone. Probably valuable. Small enough to go unnoticed, solid enough to matter later.
I kept scanning.
The exhibit curved into another alcove—this one labeled "Colonial Exchange – Objects of Power and Prestige." The lighting was dimmer here, warmer. Velvet-lined shelves held rings, inkwells, ornate belt buckles, and chalices, each tagged with something pompous like "Symbol of Authority" or "Believed to confer divine favor."
One piece stood out: a silver ring with a wide band and a dark red stone set in the center—deep color, no cracks, matte finish.
The tag read: "Anonymous Sorcerer – Protective Ring."
Sure. Probably just a marketing angle.
The stone looked legit. Deep red, low gloss—could've been garnet, could've been fancy cola bottle glass. I wasn't exactly a gemologist.
I tapped it. The ring vanished with a faint shift.
Stored : Silver Ring (Garnet).
Stored in Slot 10.
A few feet over, behind a separate case labeled "Personal Effects", sat a pocket watch, an old comb, a tarnished steel flask, and a pendant with a pale green stone set into cheap-looking metal. No label, no display light. But the stone had a certain weight to it—color, clarity, something that might mean value.
Or maybe it was just decorative trash.
I tapped it—just to check. If it wasn't worth anything, I'd drop it right back where it was.
Stored: Pendant (Peridot).
Stored in Slot 11.
Peridot. No idea if it was worth anything, but the hoarder in me wasn't about to leave it behind. I'd check it properly later.
I slipped out.
Cool air hit my face as I stepped back into the open. The plaza was quiet—distant city noise, warm light bouncing off the stone
I kept walking for a few steps, letting my mind settle, my posture relax. No alarms. No shouts. No sudden flashes behind me.
Then it hit me.
Cameras.
I stopped.
Not because I'd triggered one—on the contrary, I'd carefully avoided any obvious ones inside. But that was the thing: I'd avoided them. I hadn't even thought about disabling them.
I'd been so focused on executing the stealth technique, slipping through blind spots, sticking to shadows… that I'd overlooked the obvious.
You can also just turn them off.
Of course. Most of those feeds had to go somewhere. Some cheap backroom with dusty monitors and a half-asleep guard. I didn't need to dance around every lens like I was in a movie—sometimes the smarter move was to remove the lens entirely.
I felt a mix of irritation and amusement. I was out. I'd done it. But I was still thinking like a trainee, like someone trying to prove the technique worked. Not training anymore. Just... getting the job done. Sometimes "good enough" was all that mattered. Sometimes there was an easier way.