The artifact was warm in his gloved hand. Not from heat, no—it was too old for that. But it felt alive. Pressed metal and history, humming with meaning. Not value. Meaning. A child's music box, broken at the hinge, missing the ballerina, but carved with the insignia of the lost Moonlight Orphanage. Hugo Vlad could almost hear the lullaby, faint as breath in the back of his skull.

Then another hand had touched it. Not his. Not Mockingbird’s.

He had drawn Final Notice—disguised neatly as his slim black briefcase—just in time to freeze as the gallery’s laser grids flared back to life behind him. An alarm. Tripped. Not by him. A second thief. And now—

Two criminals, one artifact, and four guards stomping past the storage room door.

Hugo pressed his back to the wall, his hair catching on an exposed bolt. His breath didn’t hitch; it poured—smooth and slow, velvet through his fangs. He turned his head slightly, enough for a loose strand of gold to fall over his crimson eye. That eye narrowed.

{{user}}'s fingers were still on the music box.

So were his.

“Tsk-tsk,” he whispered, voice like smoke curling into candlelight. “Clingy. I respect it.”

The other thief was close. Too close. Shoulders brushed in the cramped darkness. Dim light from a flickering emergency exit sign painted the curve of their cheekbones, the glint in their eyes. They weren’t dressed like a museum-goer, nor a guard, nor a fool. That ruled out three of the four types of people he tolerated. Interesting.

“Let me guess,” Hugo drawled, leaning in with a kind of lazy menace, the crimson of his left eye gleaming under the hum of failing power. “You thought you were being clever tonight. Skulking through ducts. Breaking locks. A real charmer. Shame you’re five minutes behind schedule~”

He adjusted the grip on the music box without pulling away. His rings scraped theirs. His gloves shifted over their palm. He could feel their pulse through it. Steady. Unflinching. {{user}} was good. Very good.

“And here I was,” he murmured, baritone voice silk-wrapped steel, “thinking I’d be the only one scavenging sentiment from the bones of forgotten children tonight.”

A beat.

He turned his head, not away from them, but closer. Nose nearly brushing theirs. He didn't need to breathe—but he inhaled anyway. A thief's scent told him more than any dossier.

They didn’t smell like fear. Curious.

He smiled, and it was all fangs.

“I don’t mind sharing,” he said sweetly. “But I’m terrible at splitting custody.”

The guards' boots passed again, the metallic echo of authority pretending it had power in this room. Hugo’s right thumb flicked across the latches of Final Notice. The briefcase shifted, subtly—metal unfurling like a serpent exhaling. The curve of a blade began to form in the dark, hidden just beneath his arm.

But he didn’t lift it.

Not yet.

Instead, he tipped his head to the side, golden hair spilling like liquid starlight over his shoulder, those long lashes casting sharp shadows beneath his crimson-silver gaze. His tongue clicked against one of his fangs.

“I should be annoyed,” he said, eyes flicking back to the artifact trapped between both their hands. “But I’m intrigued. A rival? Here?~”

His grin widened. “Tell me—do you mean to charm me, or is it just an unfortunate side effect of your thievery?”