After days of careful thought, Dean finally made his decision.
He would walk the path of a phantom thief, and not just any thief—he would follow the style of the legendary Kaito Kid.
It wasn't that other famous thieves lacked skill or charm. Quite the opposite. But among all of them, Kaito Kid stood apart for one simple reason: he didn't just steal—he performed. Every appearance was a spectacle. Every theft was a declaration. Every move was designed to shock, confuse, and leave people staring at the empty space where certainty used to be.
And astonishment—that raw, emotional shock—was exactly what Dean needed.
Still, deciding was one thing. Being confident was another.
This was Gotham City.
A place where chaos was part of the daily routine, where criminals didn't wait for darkness to pull a trigger, and where the line between lunacy and genius was razor thin. On any random street, a smiling stranger might suddenly pull out a gun and start shooting for reasons no one would ever understand.
And above all else…
Batman was here.
The world's greatest detective. A living myth. A shadow that watched Gotham from above.
Dean knew the truth clearly: without real ability, his career as a phantom thief would end the moment it began. Best case scenario, he'd wake up behind bars in Blackgate Penitentiary. Worst case? He wouldn't wake up at all.
Arkham Asylum was out of the question. Dean was sane—far too sane. He didn't hear voices. He didn't laugh at corpses. That meant no padded cell, no excuse. Just cold steel bars and a lifetime of regret.
So he waited.
And trained.
For years.
He practiced relentlessly, squeezing every drop of potential from the mysterious system that had chosen him. Disguise, until he could walk past someone who knew him and never be recognized. Voice alteration, until accents, tones, and identities blended like paint on a palette. Sleight of hand, illusion, misdirection, and stage magic, honed to the point where even his own eyes could be deceived.
Only when he was certain—when every skill had become instinct—did Dean dare to make his first move.
That move came in the form of a Notice box.
The Gotham Art Museum received it exactly one week ago.
The result?
Frankly… disappointing.
The museum didn't take it seriously. No emergency meetings. No citywide alerts. No media frenzy. The Notice box was dismissed as a prank, maybe the work of an overconfident copycat or a bored college student.
That indifference made the theft itself absurdly easy.
Dean slipped in and out like a whisper, acquiring a jeweled bracelet without triggering a single alarm. No dramatic chase. No confrontation. No legend born.
Only a handful of patrol guards vaguely remembered seeing someone who "felt off."
The astonishment he gained was negligible.
But the failure wasn't useless.
It proved something important.
If he wanted astonishment, he couldn't behave like an ordinary thief.
He needed theater. He needed mystery. He needed eyes watching.
So Dean sent out a second Notice box.
And this time, he did something unexpected.
He returned the stolen bracelet.
Upholding the spirit of a true phantom thief.
Not stealing for greed. Not hiding in the shadows. But challenging the world openly.
To make sure the city wouldn't ignore him again, Dean widened his net. He sent copies of the Notice box to newspapers, television stations, and major media outlets across Gotham.
If he was going to step onto the stage, then the audience had to be there.
He wanted reporters, cameras, speculation, and fear. He wanted his name whispered in bars and debated in police precincts.
Of course, he was also aware of the risk.
One misstep, and he wouldn't become a legend—he'd become a warning.
A cautionary tale told in quiet voices.
Five days remained until the date he announced.
Dean stood by the window of his temporary hideout, hands in his pockets, staring into the night.
The Bat-Signal burned brightly against the clouds, a silent promise that Gotham was never unguarded.
"There are five days left…" he murmured. "I wonder what the GCPD's response will be."
---
Time moved quickly.
Before Dean could fully process the tension, February 19th arrived.
The Gotham Art Museum transformed overnight into a fortress.
Hundreds of guards were stationed throughout its halls, galleries, and corridors. Half were museum security, trained and alert. The other half were GCPD officers, armed and experienced, their eyes constantly scanning every visitor.
Tourists passed through metal detectors under intense scrutiny.
Every tall man in a coat.
Every figure in white.
Every suspicious smile.
All of them were examined as potential incarnations of Kaito Kid.
At the museum's main entrance, two seasoned officers stood side by side.
One was Commissioner James Gordon, his trench coat worn but neat, his expression stern and focused.
The other wore a battered cowboy hat, sported a thick beard, and carried the unmistakable air of a man who'd seen too much nonsense to be impressed anymore.
Harvey Bullock.
"Jim," Bullock muttered, adjusting his coat, "do you really think this Kaito Kid wannabe is showing up today?"
"We've been guarding this place for five days straight. Rotating shifts, burning manpower. The GCPD isn't exactly overflowing with resources."
"If you ask me," Bullock continued, lighting a cigarette, "the guy probably got scared and ran."
Gordon didn't even look at him.
"Don't get careless, Harvey," he said firmly. "If my deduction is correct, today is exactly when he'll move."
Bullock raised an eyebrow. "That confident, huh?"
The warning rolled off him like rain on concrete.
Gordon sighed. He knew his partner well.
Reaching into his coat, he pulled out the Notice box and read aloud:
"The last drop of water falls from the transparent bottle.
The newborn fish leaps from the dry bottle.
The trapped angel sobs mournfully.
When an inverted L appears above the high tower,
Silver-white wings will descend, guided by the moonlight,
Wiping away the angel's tears."
"This isn't poetry for fun," Gordon said. "It's a timetable."
"The transparent bottle refers to Aquarius. The fish is Pisces. The first two lines tell us the transition between them."
"February 19th," Bullock muttered. "Today."
"And the trapped angel?" Bullock asked after a pause.
Gordon shot him a glare. "You skipped the briefing again, didn't you?"
"The museum's crown jewel," Gordon continued, "is Angel's Blood Tears."
A natural ruby, uncut, shaped like a falling tear, its deep crimson color earning its name.
Bullock chuckled. "So today's the day, and the target's a ruby."
"But the rest?" Bullock frowned. "Inverted L? High tower? We don't have any towers near the museum."
"I don't know," Gordon admitted. "That part still escapes me."
Bullock exhaled smoke. "Thieves these days… announcing crimes, returning loot. What's the point?"
"Even the Riddler never gave things back. This guy's a whole new level of crazy."
"I've contacted Robin," Gordon said quietly. "He might be able to decode the rest."
Bullock smirked. "Batman's shadow kid? Figures."
---
Not far away, on the rooftop of a nearby skyscraper, a slim figure crouched silently, cape fluttering in the wind.
Robin.
He reread the Notice box under the moonlight, eyes sharp with focus.
"February 19th. Gotham Art Museum. Angel's Blood Tears," he murmured. "That part's clear."
"But the inverted L… and the high tower…"
His gaze swept the skyline.
No towers.
No obvious landmarks.
"Maybe it's symbolic," he muttered. "A tower doesn't have to be a building."
His eyes widened slightly.
"A clock."
"The hour and minute hands form shapes," he realized. "An inverted L is ┓."
"9:30 PM."
"That's it."
Robin smirked faintly.
"But silver-white wings?" he mused. "Gliding? Parachute? Artificial wings?"
"In this city… anything's possible."
He glanced at his watch.
"One and a half hours to go."
Instead of entering the museum, Robin stayed where he was.
If the phantom thief came from the sky, Robin would intercept him before he ever touched the ground.
And if this was all misdirection?
Then Robin would still see everything from above.
---
Inside the museum, amid the crowd and tension, a uniformed security guard subtly checked his watch.
His lips curved into a faint smile.
The stage was set.
The countdown had begun.