01 • house edge* •

Somewhere,
70 Days Until Zero Hour

She felt like a dull, throbbing pain was about to split her skull open, and that her muscles might tear themselves from her bones thanks to the voltage that had surged through her body. She’d regained consciousness half an hour earlier, lying on the floor of an empty room, but had only recently been dragged—by a nameless guy who couldn’t care less about her resistance, screaming, threats, or curses—into her current location: a bare room with only two chairs and a table. Since then, no one had shown the slightest interest in her.

And she’d give a lot to get her hands on the guy who’d zapped her like that; she’d set the stun gun so high it would turn him into crispy jerky.

For now, all she could do was wait and wonder what exactly had gone wrong with this day.

She knew it. Her gut had been screaming at her not to leave the house on that gloomy Monday evening. If only she’d listened to her instincts, she wouldn’t be sitting on this hard metal chair, wrists bound in cold handcuffs.

She left the apartment without noticing anything strange. Walked calmly toward the bus stop, turned into the side alley she always took. And that’s where a black Volvo cut her off. Her mind, trained for years to stay alert and anticipate danger, fired off warning signal one. Then signal two—when two men stepped out of the car.

“Kelly Thifer?” asked the first one, whose face looked like a bulldog that had lost a fight with a semi.

“Nope,” she replied immediately, faking surprise. The bulldog glanced at his buddy—an emaciated stick of a man who looked like a dried-up praying mantis—and the two began walking toward her in unison. No luck fooling them, though they looked dumb enough for it.

Shit, she thought, stepping back and sliding her right hand into the pocket of her black leather jacket. Her fingers clenched around a small metal canister.

“We’ve been ordered to escort you somewhere. Don’t resist, and this will go quickly and painlessly,” Bulldog said in a diplomatic tone, still advancing.

“And if I refuse?”

“Quickly, but painfully.”

She scoffed at the very persuasive offer, and just as he got within range, she sprayed his bulging eyes with pepper spray.

Bulldog cursed violently, doubling over, and after a moment of stunned silence, the mantis lunged at her. After all, she couldn’t have been more than five foot six, with that brown ponytail tied high on her head. What could possibly go wrong?

Everything.

As he charged, she dodged at the last second, sending him stumbling toward a nearby wall. She was smaller than him, but that meant she was faster. They could’ve danced like this until Bulldog recovered, but she wasn’t going to give them that chance. After another dodge, she shrugged off her backpack, swung it hard, and nailed the mantis in the head. The hit wasn’t strong, but enough to daze him. She took the opportunity and bolted toward the exit of the alley—walking backward to keep them in sight.

And sure, she didn’t let either the bulldog or the mantis sneak up on her—they were too busy picking up the pieces of their pride—but focusing on them meant she didn’t notice when a third player joined the game.

“Why do I always have to clean up your mess?”

Her mentor had always told her her greatest weakness was a lack of focus. She remembered those words—spoken by that old drunk—just as she heard a soft voice by her ear. Before she could move, she felt cold metal against her neck, followed by a surge of volts through her body.

The world dissolved into flashing colors, her muscles gave out, and she collapsed to the ground. Before the black tentacles of unconsciousness pulled her under, only one question echoed in her fading mind: Why does life hate me so much?

Even after regaining consciousness, she still had no answer. Instead, more questions piled on: Who had she pissed off this time? Who were those charming gentlemen? Had someone from her past finally tracked her down for revenge?

If that was the case, she had a long list of potential suspects to go through. On the other hand… maybe justice had finally come knocking? No, the justice system was way too stupid to track her down.

Her train of thought changed the moment she heard a faint click behind her—the door unlocking. Her body tensed, bracing for confrontation. She was still groggy, but if she could just get these handcuffs off the back of the chair, she knew she could fight back.

One person entered, their footsteps heavy. They circled the table and sat down across from her.

And she found herself staring at… a completely random man.

She scanned him quickly, trying to assess: cop? agent? criminal? Black blazer, black shirt, black vest—definitely not your average cop. Maybe someone higher up the chain. But it was the steel-blue eyes that got to her: hard, unyielding, completely devoid of pity. Even for the innocent. Who the hell was he? A prosecutor? A cold-blooded killer? A... pimp?

She tried to categorize him, but each option seemed more absurd than the last.

“Sleep well?” he asked, and her whole body stiffened at the sound of that voice.

She clenched her fists, forcing herself to stay calm. Right in front of her sat the man who’d tasered her. And oh, how much she wanted to return the favor.

She ignored his question, and he, completely unfazed, kept speaking:

"Apologies for the rough handling—but you didn’t exactly leave us many options."

She couldn’t stop herself from making a face, raising her brows high. Of all the things she expected, an apology wasn’t one of them.

"Right, because it’s totally normal for young women to hop into a car with two strangers and let themselves be taken God knows where," she snapped, shifting on the hard chair.

The man shrugged and placed his hands on the table. Only now did she notice the thick folder lying in front of him—it must’ve been there the whole time.

"We figured you might be... difficult," he admitted, spreading his hands slightly.

"And you’re a pain in the ass," she muttered, avoiding looking at the file. "Who are you, what do you want, and who do you work for?" she shot out, taking the lead. She hated uncertainty.

"Contrary to what you might think, I’m neither a cop nor someone working for any of your former... clients or victims," he replied calmly.

He knows.

The thought sliced through her like a cold wind, sending a shiver down her spine. Against her will, her eyes flicked toward the folder—and he slowly pushed it toward her.

He knows.

"I think I’m something much worse," he said, without a hint of emotion.

He opened the folder, and the first thing she saw was a photo of herself—not some grainy mugshot, but a casual frame from a street camera, catching her walking down the sidewalk without a hood or mask. Her face clearly visible. She stared into her own blue eyes, then read the information beneath.

Name: Kelly
Surname: Thifer
Age: 20
Operating Area: Norderia. Until 2016 – Districts 5, 6, and 7; from January 2016 – District Two; since September 2017 – District One, Brightmoore.
Criminal Activity: Thief, pickpocket, burglar.
Approx. number of crimes: Around a hundred.

She tore her eyes away from the documents and looked at the man.

"Former thief," she emphasized, trying not to show her rising tension. "Your records need updating."

"Doesn’t change the fact that your résumé is pretty damn impressive, right?" he asked, flipping the page. Her eyes scanned the notes.

Notes on her heists. Not all of them, but the big ones—like robbing the budget firm’s CEO, the audacious hit on that pompous millionaire’s villa, or snatching the priceless necklace from under the nose of that rich old widow. She’d always believed no one knew the full details of those jobs. The police certainly never linked her—just a regular 20-year-old—to the masked thief the criminal underworld knew as Shira.

And yet, the man sitting across from her held not only full intel, but also evidence—solid, damning, enough to lock her away for years without breaking a sweat. There were plenty of people who’d kill for a shot at catching the legendary thief who robbed fat cats of their peace of mind.

Shit.

She felt cold sweat trickle down her back and the blood drain from her face. She looked up at him, tense.

"Who the hell are you?" she asked. He wasn’t a cop; he was the walking nightmare of every criminal. Someone who would crawl through hell just to get his target.

She was screwed.

"You’ve been living in Brightmoore for a few months now, and you’ve never had direct contact with federal agencies—so you probably haven’t heard of us," he said after a short pause. He slid a business card across the table. She leaned forward to read it.

"Bureau of Unexplained Matters?" she read aloud and let out a nervous laugh. "Couldn’t think of a dumber name?"

He ignored her jab and swapped the business card for an official ID badge. Thifer glanced at the card, at that same square-jawed face she now saw in person, the jet-black hair styled to perfection, and those icy blue eyes. Her gaze locked onto the signature: Zack Callean, Chief Inspector & CEO of the First District, BUM.

In that instant, the humor drained from her completely. She was facing a big shot. Practically the biggest. Probably one of the most influential people in the system—though his youthful appearance didn’t match the seriousness of his title. She would’ve pegged him as an arrogant district commissioner at most.

Didn’t change the fact that she was royally screwed.

“The Bureau is an agency operating above the standard district police,” he began, letting out a weary sigh like the conversation bored him. “Unsolved disappearances and kidnappings, murders with no discernible modus operandi, anonymous hackers tearing through secure systems, or elusive thieves striking fear into the hearts of the rich and raising the blood pressure of neighborhood officers.”

He glanced at her meaningfully, eyes saying, Ring a bell?

“In short, we deal with higher-stakes issues than missing documents or noisy neighbors. We stay out of sight, and most criminals only learn we exist during their first—and last—encounter with us. Just like this one.”

Silence fell. Thifer nearly spat out a sarcastic, “And do you tase all your suspects in the neck?”
But instead, she gritted her teeth and snapped,

“Alright, you’ve shown off. Now would you kindly explain what this means for me? Are you locking me up now, or do I have to sit through more of your monologue?”

Callean slowly slid the card and badge back into his inner pocket, clearly unfazed by her irritation.

“It’s simple. We need you and your skillset for a job,” he said, as if surprised she hadn’t figured that out yet.

Her brow arched in silent disbelief.

“No, it’s not simple,” she said, enunciating each word. “Either you’re an idiot, or I am—but I don’t get why an agency that hunts criminals is suddenly asking a (former, but still) criminal for help!”

She lunged forward, and if not for the handcuffs chained to the chair, she would’ve been on her feet.

“Is this a joke? Hidden camera? Traveling circus? Where the hell did logic go?!”

“Probably jumped out the window. But some missions require a lack of logic,” he replied flatly.
Says the wise old master, she thought.

Kelly shook her head in disbelief, a few strands of hair falling across her face.

“No. No way. I’m not making any deals with you. How do I know this isn’t a trap? That you won’t frame me for another job just to bump up my sentence? Screw you.”

Callean retrieved the file and flipped through a few pages.

“Well, I think you’ll come around eventually—logic or not.”

He slid the folder back toward her.

“Because there’s one mission you really wouldn’t want seeing the light of day… am I right?”

She stared at him, trying to determine if he was bluffing. Eventually, she lowered her gaze to the page titled: “Heist at the Ragnarson Summer Estate.”

For a moment, her heart stopped—then thundered back into motion. A wave of unwanted memories crashed over her.

*house edge --> The average amount a casino earns from each bet in the long run. “The house always wins.”