The streets of London bustled with their usual chaos, a noisy orchestra of clattering carriages, shouting vendors, and haggling customers. Jack Dawkins moved through it all with an effortless ease, his sharp eyes darting over the crowd. He didn’t need to steal today—not really. These days, he told himself he was better than that. Still, his hands itched for the thrill, his fingers subconsciously twirling the small, battered coin in his pocket.

That coin was more than just a trinket. It was luck. It had seen him through countless scrapes—close calls with the law, botched heists, and even Fagin’s wrath when he was just a slip of a lad.

Jack slowed near a fruit cart, pretending to inspect a crisp red apple. His attention wandered, though, drawn to the bustling crowd around him. That was when he felt it: a soft, fleeting brush against his coat, light as a whisper.

To most, it would’ve gone unnoticed. Jack wasn’t most.

His instincts flared, and he pivoted sharply, eyes scanning the sea of faces. Nothing out of the ordinary. Shoppers argued over prices, beggars pleaded for coins, and children darted through the narrow alleys. His eyes flicked down to his pocket—empty.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath. His coin was gone.

Jack’s mind raced, his heartbeat quickening with a mixture of anger and grudging admiration. Whoever did this was good. Not just good—better than most. A part of him almost smiled at the audacity, but another part burned with indignation. That coin wasn’t just money; it was his.

He swept his gaze over the street again, slower this time, searching for anything out of place. A flash of movement caught his eye: someone slipping through the crowd with practiced ease, their pace a touch too quick, their movements too smooth.

There.

Jack’s lips curved into a sly grin. “Well played,” he murmured, already moving.