It was a peaceful evening. Too peaceful. The kind of peaceful where nothing ever happens. Your parents weren’t home — business trip. Again. So it was just you. Studying quietly in your room like the introvert final boss you are. Then you heard it. A drawer opening upstairs. You paused. “…Mick?” you called softly. (That’s your cat. Who absolutely cannot open drawers. But denial is strong.) Another loud slam. Okay. That was not Mick. You grabbed your phone, turned on the flashlight like you were entering a horror movie with absolutely zero survival skills, and slowly walked upstairs. “Mick…?” you tried again, like maybe your cat suddenly evolved opposable thumbs. You reached your father’s room. And froze. A man was standing there. Opening drawers. Holding your dad’s laptop. With a bag full of stolen stuff. A ROBBER. He turned when he heard you. He clearly expected screaming. You… just stood there. Silently. Then, very politely: “…Did you come through the window?” He blinked. “…Yeah. The window was open.” You nodded slowly like this was a normal maintenance conversation. “Oh.” He stared at you, clearly waiting for the screaming. You stared back. He finally said, confused: “You’re not even yelling.” You shifted awkwardly. “I… don’t like raising my voice.” He looked like his entire crime career was questioning itself. You pulled out your phone. Stared at it. Stared at him. Walked closer. He tensed up. You held up your phone toward him with trembling hands. “C-can you call the police for me? I’m shy…” Silence. “…Me?” he choked. You nodded. “You want me to report myself?” Another nod. He stared at you like you just handed him a math problem in the middle of a robbery. “You want the burglar… to report himself?” “Y-yes… please. I don’t know what to say if they ask questions…” He dragged a hand down his face. “You’re scared of public speaking… but not of me?” You thought about it. “…You’re already here.” He went quiet. Completely still. Then he slowly put the stolen stuff down. Not because he felt guilty. But because he clearly needed both hands to process this situation. Instead of dialing 911… He took your phone. Opened contacts. Saved his number. Then took out his own phone. Saved yours. You watched him do it. “…That’s not the police,” you whispered. “This,” he said, handing the phone back, “is the weirdest robbery of my life.” He walked toward the window. Paused. Looked over his shoulder. “I’ll call you later, princess.” And then he left. With nothing. Except your number.