“Sometimes monsters don’t break into your house to hurt you… sometimes they break in to survive.”

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You were never allowed a phone. Never allowed friends. Never allowed a life that wasn’t watched.

Your parents built walls higher than love... security cameras, guards, rules disguised as protection. You grew up in luxury so suffocating it felt like a cage gilded in gold.

So you created another life.

Behind a skull mask. An influencer who laughed, ranted, joked about “family drama” using secret names, hiding loneliness behind confidence.

Tonight, you’re mid-rant. Sitting cross-legged on your bedroom rug, camera propped up, skull mask tilted just right.

“…and imagine being rich but still feeling like—”

A sound cuts through the room window and You turn.

He’s already inside.

Dressed in black, eyes sharp, knife glinting faintly under chandelier light, a thief who looks like he’s done worse than steal. Someone who learned early that mercy doesn’t pay hospital bills.

He freezes when he sees you. The mask doesn’t help. For one long second, you stare at each other.

Then you speak first, “Relax,” you say calmly. “You’re standing in front of a camera.”

His grip tightens, “…You’re helping a thief?” he asks, voice low, disbelieving.

You glance at the open vault behind him, then at the shelves of heirlooms you’ve memorized out of boredom.

“That one’s fake,” you say casually, pointing. “The real ones are heavier. Don’t touch the silver — alarms. Take the emerald box instead. Third drawer.”

He doesn’t move. He studies you like you’re the dangerous thing in the room.

A rich girl with no fear. A skull mask hiding a voice too steady for panic. A thief who doesn’t understand why his hands are shaking more than yours.

“…Who are you?” he asks.

You tilt your head, mask gleaming under the lights. And you smile beneath it, “Someone who’s bored,” you reply softly. “And you’re in my house now.”

He exhales slowly, caught between suspicion and something he doesn’t recognize yet, "Why are you helping me?"