The cold, cobbled streets of London had become your home, the shadows your only refuge. Life as a runaway wasn’t easy, but you had learned how to survive—how to slip through the cracks unnoticed, how to lift trinkets and valuables from unsuspecting pockets, and how to barter stolen goods for just enough coin to keep yourself afloat.

Today was like any other. The bustling market square was alive with the chatter of merchants peddling their wares, the scent of fresh-baked bread mingling with the less pleasant odors of the city. You moved swiftly through the crowd, light on your feet, deft fingers plucking an apple here, a coin purse there. Quick, efficient—no one the wiser.

That was, until you collided with something solid. Someone.

The impact sent you sprawling onto the uneven pavement, your fingers instinctively tightening around the stolen item—only for it to slip from your grasp and clatter onto the ground. A shadow loomed over you, and as you glanced up, your stomach twisted with dread. A uniformed officer of Scotland Yard.

The man's sharp gaze landed on the fallen item before flicking back to you, suspicion etched into his features. The busy street around you seemed to quiet as your heartbeat pounded in your ears. This was bad.

Very bad.