Vale lay on the ground for a long moment, unable to breathe.
Pain clenched his chest like a fist tightening around his heart. His vision blurred, lights flashing behind his eyes as if something inside him had torn loose and was trying to escape. He rolled onto his side and vomited, his body shaking violently.
"What is this…?" he whispered.
There was no answer. Only the pounding in his ears.
When the pain eased enough for him to move, Vale forced himself upright. His hands were trembling as he gathered the stolen money and stuffed it into his bag. Every step away from the house felt wrong—heavy, resistant—but he didn't stop running until he collapsed onto his bed.
Morning came too fast.
Vale woke suddenly, gasping, his heart racing as if he'd been chased in his sleep. For several seconds he lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince himself that the night had been a nightmare.
Then he remembered the money.
His chest tightened again—not with pain this time, but fear.
"Should I go to the hospital…?" he muttered.
The thought lingered, uncomfortable but necessary. He turned on the television while dressing, needing noise to ground himself.
TV REPORT: "A robbery occurred last night in a residence near the village outskirts. Police dogs tracked the suspect's scent but lost it near the property."
Vale froze.
The report continued, but he barely heard it. They hadn't caught him. The trail ended where he'd collapsed.
For the first time in his life, luck had chosen him.
Relief flooded through him—too quickly, too strongly. He laughed, breathless.
"I did it," he said. "I actually did it."
Still, the pain scared him enough to see a doctor.
The clinic smelled of antiseptic and boredom. Vale paid in cash and sat through a full examination, his muscles tense the entire time.
The doctor frowned at the results.
"You're fine," he said. "Could be stress. Gastric issues, maybe. Nothing serious."
"No heart problem?" Vale asked.
The doctor shook his head. "You're healthy."
Vale left the clinic with food in his hands and pride swelling in his chest. If this continued—if luck stayed with him—he wouldn't have to scrape by anymore. He could plan. Build something.
One robbery a day, he thought. Carefully. Quietly.
That night, confidence outweighed caution.
He chose another house—abandoned, according to his map. The moon hung high, pale light spilling over the rooftops as Vale moved through the shadows. Everything felt easier this time. Too easy.
Inside the house, silence pressed down on him. He crept toward the master bedroom, his instincts screaming for him to leave.
Just one look, he told himself.
A bag lay near the bed.
The moment his fingers touched it, his vision exploded into white.
Pain slammed through his body—far worse than before. His veins burned, his heart hammering as if it might burst. Vale collapsed to his knees, clutching his chest, gasping for air.
Not now. Not here.
He forced himself up, teeth clenched, and ran.
Morning came again, but the pain didn't fade this time.
Vale knew better than to sell stolen gold immediately. He only wanted to check it—prove to himself it was real. He walked into a gold shop and placed a single piece on the counter.
The shopkeeper examined it, then frowned.
"Where did you get this?" he asked.
"I don't have the bill," Vale said quickly. "From Danish Jewellery."
The shopkeeper's face went pale.
"What?" He stepped back. "Danish Jewellery?"
He locked the door.
Vale's heart began to race.
The shopkeeper made a call, his voice low and urgent. Vale caught only fragments—descriptions, serial marks, dates.
Then the shopkeeper froze.
"…Yes," he said slowly. "The name matches."
He turned to Vale.
"This gold belongs to you," the man said. "That's the registered owner."
Vale swallowed.
"I've never been here before," he whispered.
The shopkeeper nodded, unsettled. "I know."
Vale stepped back, his body screaming in warning. Something was terribly wrong. The gold wasn't just stolen.
It was his.