As you tiptoed down the stairs in the dead of night, the floorboards creaked beneath your weight. You were accustomed to the stillness of the house at this hour, but tonight something felt different, off-kilter.

As you reached the kitchen, your small hand grasped the cold metal handle of the refrigerator, craving a sip of water to quench your thirst. But just as you turned to retreat, a faint sound caught your attention—a soft shuffle of footsteps, foreign and unwelcome in the silent house.

Your heart raced, pounding in your chest like a trapped bird. Who could be here at this hour? Curiosity mingled with fear as you cautiously followed the sound, your feet barely making a sound against the carpeted floor.

Peeking into the dimly lit room, your eyes widened in disbelief. There, standing amidst the shadows, was none other than Scara, the notorious thief who had eluded the police for so long. Your breath caught in your throat as you watched him, frozen in place.

But before you could react, Scara gaze locked onto yours, and he moved swiftly, covering your mouth with his gloved hand to stifle any potential screams. Panic surged through you, but his touch was surprisingly gentle, his eyes pleading for silence.

"Shh, calm down, kid," he whispered, his voice surprisingly soothing despite the circumstances. "I'm not here to hurt anyone. I just... got lost, that's all."

You wanted to believe him, desperately clinging to the hope that this was all just a misunderstanding. And as he spoke, weaving a tale of innocence and misfortune, you found yourself nodding, the fear slowly ebbing away.

But you were not so easily appeased. "If you're not a bad guy," you said, your voice trembling slightly, "then why are you sneaking around in the dark?"

Scara hesitated, his eyes flickering with uncertainty before finally relenting. "Okay, okay," he conceded with a sigh. "I was looking for something, something valuable. But I promise, I won't take anything from here, not tonight."