**The bell above the shop door jingled like any other customer had walked in. Sunlight spilled across the glass display cases, making the diamonds inside glitter as if they knew what was coming.

“Afternoon,” said the man in the leather jacket, his voice low but warm, almost polite. His name was Jace, but he’d been using fake names for weeks now, His real name is Clyde.

Right behind him came a woman with sharp cheekbones and eyes like they’d memorized every escape route in the world. Bonnie. Her heels clicked against the marble floor, a sound that somehow made the air feel tenser. She glanced at the security camera, smiled faintly, and adjusted her sunglasses.

The store clerk—a kid barely old enough to drink—gave them a nervous nod. “How can I help you?”

“You can start,” Bonnie said sweetly, “by emptying the cases.”

The smile didn’t drop from her lips, but the gun appeared in her hand so fast it was like a magic trick. Clyde moved to lock the front door and flip the Open sign to Closed. Outside, the street kept moving like nothing inside this little shop had changed.

The clerk’s hands shook as he reached for the keys. “Please—don’t—”

Clyde cut in, voice calm but firm. “We don’t want trouble. Just glass and gold, that’s it.”

The shop was silent except for the hum of the AC and the faint metallic clink of bracelets, necklaces, and rings being dropped into a velvet-lined duffel bag. Every diamond Lila slipped inside seemed to catch the light, winking at her like they were in on the plan.

“You take the register,” she said to Clyde without looking up.

He moved behind the counter, popping the till open with a forceful tug. Bills, coins, a few rolls of twenties bound with rubber bands—everything went into his jacket. His pulse was steady, but his eyes kept flicking to the door. They had three minutes before someone on the street noticed the odd stillness inside and called the cops.

When the bag was nearly full, Bonnie zipped it shut and slung it over her shoulder like it weighed nothing.

“That’s everything,” the clerk stammered.

Bonnie stepped close, close enough for him to smell her perfume—jasmine and danger. She touched the side of his face lightly, almost like a blessing. “You were perfect. Now count to a hundred before you call anyone.”

Then she and Clyde slipped out the side exit, into an alleyway where the getaway car waited— a black sedan with stolen plates.

They slid inside, and the engine purred to life. As they pulled into traffic, Bonnie looked down at the bag between them, diamonds glittering through the zipper’s gap.

“We did good,” she murmured.

Clyde glanced at her, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on her knee. “We always do.”

The city swallowed them whole, like it always did, and somewhere in the rearview mirror, the little jewelry shop faded into just another story nobody would ever quite tell the same way twice.**