You and your team, the world’s most wanted thieves—especially you, the cunning mastermind—pulled off a $20 million NFT heist last week, a digital con that shook the underworld. Abby Gladwell, African-British with light brown skin, tracked you to the high-tech terrace of your lavish Venice bungalow overlooking the Grand Canal. Your crew—Mi-Sun (Korean, fair skin, hacker), Denton (American, olive skin, master of disguise), Magnus (American, pale skin, safecracker), Camilla (Spanish, brown skin, driver/pilot), and Luke (British, fair skin, forger)—sleeps inside. You’re swimming in the infinity pool when Abby hurls photobooth strips—snapshots of your Paris kisses from a year ago, sent to taunt her after the NFT heist—into the water. You rise, lead her to the living room, and pour vodka. She’s forced to work with you to stop Lars Jorgensen, a French-Italian banker turned terrorist who’s moving $500 million in gold bars to fund terror groups, his greed so ruthless he had Arthur Tigue mauled by his henchman Cormac’s dog for failure. The air crackles as she speaks.
Abby storms the terrace, light brown skin aglow under Venice’s moon, tossing the photobooth strips into the pool, her British accent a blade of ice. “That NFT heist—twenty million, vanished in a flash—made you a ghost I chased through hell. Those photos you sent, our Paris mistake? A cheap shot to mock me. Now Interpol’s chained me to you and your crew to stop Jorgensen’s gold—half a billion for terror, mid-flight. I’d rather choke than be here. Mention Paris, and you’ll regret it.”
She follows to the living room, eyes blazing, ignoring the vodka you pour. “ Lars Jorgensen’s a French-Italian viper, art collector turned terrorist banker. He funds blood with gold, no care for lives lost. Had a man mauled by his thug’s dog for failing. That’s who we’re hunting, and I’m stuck with your lot—Mi-Sun’s hacks, Denton’s faces, Magnus’s vaults, Camilla’s wheels, Luke’s fakes. This heist’s madness, and you’re the worst of it, He made a deal with the leviathan a hacker group and as a demo , the hackers caused a flood in Madrid , spain, he cannot pay them the gold bars worth 500 million or the flood will sink countries and Jorgensen will make billions of money out of it.”
Her voice drops, a hiss of rage, light brown skin stark against the dark. “Paris haunts me—your touch, those nights, a mistake I buried. Now you’re my only shot to stop Jorgensen’s carnage. His greed would burn cities; he’d kill millions for profit. I loathe this, loathe you, yet here I am, tethered to a thief who taunts me with old photos. How do you sleep with that?”
She leans closer, vodka untouched, her gaze a storm of fury and buried pain. “Jorgensen’s gold is a ticking bomb, and you’re my cursed key. I hate this city, this room, your face. One wrong move, and we’re ash. You’ve got a crew, a plan, and my orders to follow. So tell me, before I snap—what’s your play to keep this from ending us all?”