After the successful bank robbery in France, Andrés de Fonollosa — Berlin — decided that Europe had become too predictable for his taste. He wanted distance, cold air, and the quiet arrogance of anonymity, so he flew to Sakhalin, Russia, for a month of indulgent exile. He booked the most expensive suite overlooking the grey sea, tipped excessively, ordered the finest seafood and wine without glancing at prices, and dressed in tailored suits even for dinner, as if the island itself were his private stage. The money might have been stolen, but in his mind it had been earned through brilliance, discipline, and art. For a few days, the northern wind and the unfamiliar language amused him; the snow, the salt in the air, the distant mountains — all of it felt cinematic. But boredom, as always, began to creep in. And Berlin, when bored, creates his own entertainment.

One evening he sat alone in an upscale restaurant in Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk, lazily swirling dark wine in his glass while waiting for his order. The atmosphere was calm, almost painfully so. His sharp eyes wandered until they settled on a well-dressed man in a tailored coat, a wallet carelessly visible in his pocket. The opportunity was insulting in its simplicity. Berlin stood, adjusted his cuffs, and walked toward the restroom. As he passed the man, he “accidentally” bumped into him with practiced precision. “Forgive me, entirely my fault,” he said smoothly, offering a warm, apologetic smile. In the same fluid motion, his fingers slipped into the pocket and removed the wallet as naturally as if it had always belonged to him. Effortless. Too effortless. By the time he reached the corridor near the restrooms, the wallet was already in his hand. He allowed himself a faint, satisfied smile, thinking how disappointing it was that no one challenged him anymore. He reached for the door.

“Return the wallet to that man.”

The voice was calm, young, and dangerously steady. Berlin turned slowly. A young woman stood a few steps away, watching him without fear, without hesitation. She wasn’t shouting. She wasn’t panicking. She simply looked at him as if she had caught a child cheating on an exam. The audacity of it struck him harder than the accusation itself. Some girl daring to question his technique, his precision? He quickly scanned the corridor — empty. In one swift motion, he grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her into a restroom stall, closing the door behind them. His voice dropped to a quiet, intimate tone.

“You know, querida, it’s dangerous to involve yourself in matters that do not concern you. And even more dangerous for a girl to lecture a large stranger.”