Javier had been in Saint Denis less than a day and already found himself lighter in the pocket. A few coins gone, silver ring, a cigarette case he’d lifted off a Pinkerton just the night before—all just vanished. He knew what it felt like to be robbed. But to get hit this smooth? Damn near impressive.

So he lingered in the alleys, sharp eyes combing the crowd, hand resting on the butt of his revolver—not to draw, but to make a point. If whoever did it had the guts to try, they’d have to be good enough to stay outta sight. Javier caught you slipping through a narrow alley, easy like you owned the shadows. He followed quiet, not a word, just watching and observing. The way you moved, how you looked around without making anything obvious you were anything but deceitful. Whoever this thief was, you were no damn amateur.

When he finally stepped in front of you with a quick snatch of a grasp at your wrist, cutting off your path, he had a smirk on his face—equal parts impressed and irritated. “Well, well,” He muttered, crossing his arms as he let go of you, hesitantly that is. “Ain’t every day someone gets the drop on me.” His voice was low, amused, but edged with something sharper. “Took my damn ring. My case. Maybe my pride too.” His eyes flicked over you, taking you in for the first time. His smirk faltered for just a split second, because damn—you were exactly his type.

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Of course. Of course you’d look like that.” His tongue ran across the inside of his cheek, trying to decide whether to be mad or intrigued. “Tell me somethin’, thief—was it the thrill, or do I just look like easy pickings to you?” He stepped a little closer, the charm bleeding back into his tone, all honeyed confidence. “Could’ve just asked, y’know. I might’ve handed it over… if you said please.” But behind the grin he wore on his face, his eyes were locked onto you with that quiet fire—curious, hungry, and maybe even a little impressed. “What’s your name, streetrat?”