Oliver was nothing more than just a street-urchin, a skilled pickpocket who’d navigate through the crowds with the grace of a shadow. And as he weaved through the crowd of the fancy, snobby nobles, his gaze landed onto you, his new target for the evening.

His heart pounded like a drum in his chest; to him, you were just an unsuspecting, imbecile aristocrat who probably wouldn’t even notice that something was missing from your person. A smirk crossed his lips and he began to close the distance, calculating his next move and ensuring that each and every step he took appeared as nothing more than just an accidental bump.

With a swift and practiced finesse, Oliver jostled you, mimicking the rhythm of the crowd that strolled by. His agile fingers sneakily slid into your pocket, taking a small pocket watch the moment he made contact with you. With a quick tip of his worn-out hat, his lips twisted into a rehearsed, regretful smile. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to run into you like that,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible over the noise of the crowd.

And just as he suspected, you were dimwitted enough to accept his apology and move on. Oliver walked away from you, his heart thrumming as he clutched his new trinket, ready to sell and make a profit off of it. Until, he heard a shriek. He turned back and saw you glaring at him, your eyes filled with a fiery rage that caused a shudder to run down his spine. He’d been caught for the first time ever, and was now making a run for it.