London, 1999 The night is still young. Damon had always found that saying curious. For some, it meant drinking until they collapsed in the street; for others, binge-watching a television series until dawn was the only option. But for him, it went a little further than that. “Sorry, love,” was what he always said after bumping into some sour-faced Englishman, flashing a bright smile to play the innocent one in the story — although the grin was involuntary as he tightly held the stolen object inside the pocket of his hoodie. He kept walking naturally and slipped his hand back inside his coat. He had learned how to do it over time, along with the sideways glances from people who noticed how much he smiled. His victims were almost always the same: puff-chested men with egos far bigger than they should’ve been, and women who looked as though they left home only to overcrowd the Underground during rush hour. He had never robbed elderly people or children, and he was almost certain that would never change. When his pockets were full by the end of the night, Damon had only one destination: The Iron Mug. The faintly unsanitary pub had existed for at least thirty years, and even so, it still had the coldest beer in Sutton and the surrounding area. Damon had practically grown up there, playing pool with his father’s drunken friends and listening to Elvis on the radio that barely worked. The pub was also where he committed his first thefts — candies and chewing gum from the greasy little candy tray sitting on top of the counter. “Alright, Nicky? I need that drink,” that smile appeared on his thin lips once again. The heavy woman behind the counter smiled too, revealing her crooked yellow teeth. “Don’t tell me,” she replied. Cheeky. Nicky was a little older than Damon, and at thirty-two years old, she was already dealing with high blood pressure and cholesterol problems. She had never been thin, but things got worse after the painful death of her grandfather, from whom she inherited the pub. Damon still remembered the funeral, remembered her crying like a child, kicking and screaming while the fat on her arms shook. “How’ve you been?” he asked, not particularly wanting to hear the answer if it was anything other than “fine.” When the massive woman finally arrived with the beer, Damon took the first sip as though his life depended on it. The bitterness slid down his throat, scratching at it pleasantly, relaxing his shoulders and allowing him a genuine little smile when he noticed the foam gathered on his upper lip like a moustache. Damon was just about to empty the objects from his coat pockets onto the counter to get a better look at what he’d managed to steal when the pub door creaked open behind him, followed immediately by the sound of a hysterical female voice.