Being able to steal a car didn’t mean I could break into a building. But it was my last card, and I was out of options.

I pondered the question for a long time before deciding. The operation was risky—extremely risky. As far as I knew, I had never tried such a thing. I had a fifty-fifty chance of getting caught. And if I did, how would I justify my actions? Was it really worth risking several years in prison for a few answers? And that’s if these men handed me over to the police. If their organization was illegal, who knew what could happen to me if they captured me?

My other options were rather limited. I could cross the street and confront these men. But there was a fifty-fifty chance they wanted me dead. Between a fifty-fifty chance of ending up dead and a fifty-fifty chance of ending up in prison, my choices were definitely limited.

And then I started laughing. The laughter rose from deep within, shaking me to my core. I rolled onto my back to look at the sky. But what was so funny, for crying out loud? I had no past, and thus no future, no identity, no family, no friends—teetering on the brink of madness, about to commit a burglary.

But as absurd as it seemed, with each dramatic statement, the laughter shook me more. Tears filled my eyes from laughing so hard. It felt incredibly good—liberating.

The laughter eventually subsided, leaving me incredibly calm. Bold pigeons approached to peck at the remains of my biscuit. One of my movements scared them off, and they flew away. Their group flight was a mix of order and chaos, breathtakingly beautiful. I savored this last moment of calm before the storm.

I needed to prepare an action plan for tonight. Entering through the front door was out of the question—it was far too exposed. I descended from the roof and circled the entire block to avoid crossing the street in the open and discreetly reached my target. A small, one-way street, moderately trafficked, lay at the rear. From a safe distance, I observed the back of the building. It had a fire exit that seemed little used, if at all. Graffiti covered the upper part, and an empty soda can lay in front amid a few cigarette butts.

I needed to get closer to check the lock. I waited patiently for the right moment. After half an hour, a group of friends passed by. I quickly pulled up the collar of my jacket to hide my face as much as possible and joined the group, walking behind them as if I were one of them. As we passed in front of the building, without stopping, I took a quick glance at the back door and sighed in relief. It was a simple pin tumbler lock—a classic. It would be easy.

I went into town to a big store just before it closed and bought a flashlight, a small screwdriver to use as a tension wrench, and hairpins to use as picks.

I tested my body to check its readiness. It was practically healed, ready for action.

I planned to act around midnight. In the meantime, I returned to the roof and continued my vigilant observation. The appointed hour seemed to take forever to arrive. I killed time by imagining everything that could go wrong and how I would react to these worst-case scenarios.

Around midnight, I made a final count of the people who, to my knowledge, were still in the building. There were at least four. That was a lot. There would be risks, but it was inevitable.

I emptied my bag and put in the flashlight, my knife, and my lock-picking tools. Then I rolled the rest of my belongings in my sleeping bag, placed it in the ventilation duct, and descended from the roof.

The neighborhood was pretty quiet at night. There were no bars or nightclubs. It wasn’t a residential area but a business district, active mainly during the day on weekdays. I circled the entire block again. It took me nearly ten minutes to reach the back door of the building. Hidden in the shadows, I waited another ten minutes.

The area remained calm. My heart started beating faster. I took a deep breath—fear was rising, leaving a metallic taste in my mouth and making it hard to breathe. I took several deep breaths to calm myself and push the fear away.

It was time to act. Moving immediately calmed me.

With determined steps, I approached the building's door. I crouched by the lock and gently inserted the screwdriver, then an unfolded hairpin. Applying torque with the screwdriver, I began a rather rudimentary raking technique. I mentally visualized the inside of the lock, projecting the image of the pins setting in place as the pick passed—one by one—always applying gentle torque. With a sharp click, the lock gave way, and the door opened.

I stood up and peered through the crack. The lights were off, and there seemed to be no one around. I carefully inspected the door. It wasn’t connected to any alarm. I saw no cameras or thermal sensors. In a heartbeat, I slipped inside silently.

My instinct told me something was wrong and that I should turn back and abandon the mission. It felt too easy. I attributed this sensation to fear and dismissed it.

I took several cautious steps down the hallway, listening carefully but hearing nothing but silence. Where were the four occupants? With a bit of luck, they were sleeping upstairs.

I turned on my flashlight and, staying close to the wall, carefully checked for any alarm. I approached the first door. It wasn’t locked and led to an empty office that seemed of little interest. I repeated the process three more times, each time finding deserted offices. On the fourth try, I came across a locked door.

Holding the flashlight in my mouth, I used the same lock-picking technique and managed to open it in a few minutes. The room was just an infirmary; bandages and various bottles stood on closed shelves. I smelled a mix of disinfectant and blood. I closed the door.

I hadn't planned on going up to the first floor; it would be too risky in case I needed to escape quickly. However, my options were narrowing. I had almost visited the entire ground floor without finding anything interesting.

Finally, I got lucky in the last office. The door was locked, but I forced it easily. The room contained a computer and a library.

I entered and approached the shelves to see their contents. Using my flashlight, I scanned the book titles. Most were in Latin. Finding a Latin library was the last thing I expected in these premises. An armory, yes—but a library?

I scanned the books. A few words seemed vaguely familiar. I grabbed one with a red cover. I put it in my bag without really knowing why I chose that one over another.

I approached the computer. It wasn’t turned off, just in sleep mode. Ironically, the screensaver was a maze of walls with no apparent exit. I shook the mouse to wake it up. It immediately protested, asking for a password. The large, outdated cathode ray monitor looked like it belonged in a museum.

Stupid machine, I cursed mentally. I started to get hot, sweat running down my back. I rolled up my sleeves. Should I take the CPU with me? Was there useful information in this old machine?

Then I heard noise from the hallway.

I barely had time to slip into the shadow of the bookshelf before the office door opened.

The next moment, the room was flooded with light. My eyes, dazzled, took a few seconds to adjust and distinguish the silhouette of a man framed in the doorway.

He cast a massive shadow into the room, blocking any easy escape.