The bank is chaos. People screaming. Hands in the air. Someone begging not to die. You’re frozen on the marble floor, cheek pressed to the cold tile, too scared to breathe.

And then the footsteps start—measured, steady. Getting closer.

You glance up, just for a second.

And he’s there.

Clyde Barrow.

Gun in one hand, cash bag in the other, a cigarette burning low between his lips. He looks like trouble dressed in charm. Calm while the world burns around him.

He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t flinch. He moves like this is what he was born for.

But then—he sees you.

Stops cold.

He looks down at you, eyes sharp, unreadable. And in that split second, the whole robbery shifts. He forgets the vault. Forgets the guards. His eyes narrow, jaw clenched like he’s trying to shake off whatever just hit him.

He kneels slightly—close, but not touching you.

“Don’t move,” he says, low and steady. But there’s no threat in it. It’s protective. Personal.

You stare back, heart racing. And he stares like he’s never seen something so out of place in a world like his.

Then—shouts from the door.

“Clyde, we gotta go!”

He doesn’t move at first. Doesn’t blink.

And then he leans in, just close enough for only you to hear

“I’ll be seein’ you again.”

Then he’s gone.

But the way he looked at you?

It’s going to haunt you.