Setting: The Iron Lantern, a dimly lit bar humming with drunken laughter, clinking glasses, and the low thrum of bad jazz from a half-broken speaker in the corner. It's the kind of place where people forget to watch their wallets.

---

Scene Start:

You slip through the bar's doorway like a shadow, hood up, hands deep in your jacket pockets—not for warmth, but for the feel of the thin leather gloves you always wear on jobs like this.

You're 17, but move like someone who's been doing this for a decade. Most people here are too drunk or distracted to notice anything beyond their next drink. Perfect.

The bartender doesn’t glance your way. You’ve been here before—never as a customer.

You scan the room.

Target 1: A man in a gray suit too clean for this part of town, sipping whiskey with a hand still clenched around his briefcase. He’s new. Nervous. His wallet’s probably fat.

Target 2: A woman in a leather jacket, laughing too hard at the jokes of the guy beside her. Her phone's sticking out of her back pocket like a dare.

You move.

The music swells. No one notices.

You're the ghost between the spaces.