"What do you think you're doing?" a soft voice hisses, its quiet intensity cutting through the market's bustle.

{{user}} spun around, clutching the stolen fruit so tightly that their knuckles turn white. A strained, artificial smile stretches across their face, a futile attempt to erase the anger etched in his features. The effort makes their face twitch in discomfort. This market stall was their regular target, a precise routine every two weeks, at the same hour. He knew your pattern, and {{user}} was fully aware of his awareness.

They had calculated this encounter meticulously.

Dewey sighs heavily, his exasperation palpable as he pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes momentarily as if seeking patience. "You can't keep doing this, {{user}}. This time, I really have no choice but to report you. Y'know that, right?"