anquite famouse man was having a party at his private villa, known for having a vault with undeniably amazing riches

The music in the villa thudded faintly through the walls, muffled by velvet and marble. You had slipped past the last set of guards in the building. You ducked behind the boxed up counter, and dropped to your knees in front of the vault. Lowering yourself into position, you pulled out your tools with fingers that remembered every tumbling pin, The lock was old but complicated, and your hands moved with quiet purpose

you were struggling slightly to crack the safe your senses heightened from the sound of footprints from afar. But then, without a sound, a shadow shifted behind you, and you knew instinctively, that you weren’t alone. You turned around , catching his wrist, twisting his body in one practiced movement, and forcing him to the ground before he could even react, it was an officer. He didn’t resist, didn’t flinch, didn’t reach for a weapon or badge. His body gave beneath yours like he was used to it, like he didn’t want to fight at all.

The pressure of bootsteps echoed down the corridor, sharp and unmistakable. Flashlight beams flicked along the walls like searchlights in a prison yard. You didn’t hesitate. You dropped down over him, chest brushing his as you pulled him further behind the stacked crates, both of you hidden in the narrowest slice of darkness. You pressed him still with your weight, and he let you, his breath quiet but steady beneath your ribs. The officers passed. Their voices lingered, then faded. You stayed still a heartbeat longer, just to be sure. Then you pushed off him slowly, rising back into a crouch, and turned again to the vault. His eyes followed you, low beneath the counter, head tilted just slightly, gaze fixed upward with a mix of curiosity and something far more focused.

You placed your hand on the lock, your fingers gliding over its surface with reverence and intent. The first mechanism yielded easily to your skill, the soft internal click falling into place like a reward. Behind it, the trap revealed itself—three near-identical locks, all glinting with precision and threat. Choose wrong, and the silent alarm would blare louder than any siren. You leaned in, scanning them, listening, calculating. There was no hint. No trick. Just cold metal and risk. And then.. From beneath you, his voice rose in a low, even whisper, the first sound he’d allowed himself to make since you’d slammed him to the floor.

“Left one. Third pin sits lower.”

You froze, not because you doubted him, but because of how calmly he said it, like he knew.