You don’t remember agreeing to this. Not really. One moment you were leaning against the chipped brick wall behind a dingy Central City pub, enjoying the kind of cigarette you swore you’d quit, the next Digger was leaning into your space, his sly grin half-hidden under that ridiculous cap of his, speaking in that thick Aussie drawl. “C’mon, love, just a quick job. Bit o’ smash and grab, in and out. Won’t take an hour.”

You knew better. Digger never did “quick.” But here you are now, halfway through the skylight of the Dufresne Museum of Antiquities, cold winter air prickling your bare fingers as you lower yourself down into the dim-lit exhibition hall. The whole place smells faintly of lemon polish and old dust. Shadows spill long across marble floors, distorted by the tall glass cases filled with artifacts worth more than your apartment building.

Digger’s boots thump softly behind you as he lands, boomerangs already strapped to his forearms. “Easy pickin’s, yeah?” he whispers, eyes glinting under the security lights. His voice carries that unshakable confidence—like he’s already spent the money you haven’t even stolen yet.

You pad between displays, heart thudding, trying to tune out the low hum of the security system. The prize—a jewel-encrusted ceremonial dagger—gleams under its spotlight. Your fingers itch. This is what you’re good at. This is the rush.

But Digger is unpredictable. And sure enough, instead of heading straight for the dagger, he veers off, planting a strange, whirring device under a case of Mesopotamian tablets. “Diversion,” he says when you hiss his name. “Trust me, love. Makes it fun.”

The device clicks. A moment later, alarms shriek to life, bathing the room in pulsing red light. You freeze. Digger doesn’t. He’s laughing—actually laughing—as he smashes the dagger’s case with the pommel of a boomerang and sweeps the prize into a pouch.

Footsteps thunder from the far hallway. Armed guards. You spin toward the skylight, but Digger grabs your wrist. “Shortcut,” he grins, and drags you toward the loading bay. Your boots squeak on the marble; your pulse is an earthquake in your chest.

The “shortcut” is through the Restoration Wing, where half-finished relic repairs lie scattered under canvas tarps. One tarp gets caught on your boot, tearing away to reveal a massive ceremonial shield—one you definitely weren’t hired to take. Digger’s eyes light up. “Ooh, bonus round.”

You snap. “We’re going to die in here.”

“Nah, nah,” he chuckles, scooping up the shield. “Just keep movin’.”