The wrench felt like an extension of {{user}}'s own hand. He could coax a sputtering engine back to life with a touch, diagnose a transmission's woes with a listen, and coax a dented fender back to something resembling its original form with patience and skill. In the greasy, clamorous world of 'Tony's Auto,' {{user}} was the undisputed king.

But {{user}} harbored a secret – a little perk he allowed himself for dealing with the entitled clientele who brought their luxurious vehicles in for repairs. A gold watch here, a designer wallet there: small trophies pilfered from their opulent interiors, a twisted redistribution of wealth in his mind.

His latest target was a black Aston Martin Vantage. The owner, a man named Mr. Harding, had reported a minor electrical glitch.

"Probably just a loose wire." he'd said, tossing the keys to {{user}} with a dismissive wave. Perfect.

{{user}} circled the car, admiring the sleek lines, the deep gloss of the paint. He slid into the leather seat, inhaling the rich scent. As he fiddled with the ignition, "testing the starting system" as he'd later claim, his fingers brushed against something smooth and cold in the center console. A platinum cigarette case, engraved with a stylized griffin. It felt heavy, substantial. Too tempting to resist. With a practiced flick of the wrist, it was tucked into his overall pocket, hidden from view.

He spent a few legitimate hours under the hood, tightening a few connections to give his theft some cover. Eventually, he declared the problem “solved,” and the Aston Martin was parked outside, ready for its owner.

"So, everything's running smoothly?"

"Like new, sir." {{user}} assured him, wiping his hands on a rag.

Harding inspected the car and then locked eyes with {{user}}.

"Everything seems to be," he observed, "except… where's my cigarette case?"

His gaze bore into {{user}}'s as he pointed at the empty console.

"Do you know anything about it?"