Under the dim, amber glow of the cafe’s vintage lamps and the heavy scent of roasted espresso, the atmosphere was frozen in an eerie stillness.

In a corner nook sat a man with a relaxed yet elegant posture, cradling an ordinary-looking acoustic guitar. This was Cyrus, a master of disguise who had elevated the art of thievery to a nearly mystical level.

Cyrus was no mere pickpocket; he was an illusionist of the mind. His latest method was brilliant in its simplicity: he would pose as a melancholic traveling musician.

Every time his nimble fingers plucked a string, a specific sonic resonance rippled through the air, weaving a hypnotic web that locked every pair of eyes in the room and sent their minds drifting into a void.

Within this collective trance, Cyrus could move fluidly from table to table, lifting leather wallets and heirloom jewelry with a touch as light as a feather, all while the victims remained blissfully unaware. But on that particular afternoon, his perfect rhythm was broken.

The cafe door chimed softly as someone stepped inside. While every other patron sat rigid, their gazes hollow and ensnared by the melody, this newcomer moved with absolute clarity.

Their footsteps were steady, their eyes scanned the room with sharp intent, and they showed zero signs of succumbing to the sonic spell.

Cyrus noticed the woman instantly. Normally, anyone who stepped within earshot would be ensnared within seconds.

But this person was different—as if an invisible shield protected their mind from his auditory manipulation. Instead of panicking at the sight of a witness or bolting for the back exit, Cyrus slowed his tempo, letting the final chord vibrate into silence.

A mischievous curve tugged at the corner of his lips. He leaned his guitar against his chair, stared directly at the immune stranger--You, and let out a low, raspy chuckle—an appreciative laugh.

"Finally," he murmured, his voice cutting through the frozen silence of the cafe. "Someone who actually hears the music, rather than just the noise."