Every Invitation Is a Trap, Every Trap an Opportunity

  November 9, 2035

  The city slid past like a filmstrip: orange sodium lamps, late-night sari-sari stores with their buzzing bulbs, and traffic that moved in sudden jerks before stalling again. From his window seat, Pol saw Montejo Heights rising, glass and steel stacked into the night like an aquarium, each lit rectangle a little tank of wealth. Near the top, one window stayed dark. Floor fifty-three, just where Banjo had said it would be.

  He kept his hands in his lap. Still smelled the faint cement and sweat on his skin, old work smells that clung like bad cologne. Beside him, Ricky watched the upper floors the way other people studied storm clouds. When Ricky pointed, it was like making an accusation.

  “Patay ang fifty-three.”

  (Fifty-three is dark.)

  “Patay din ang fifty-four hanggang fifty-six.”

  (Fifty-four through fifty-six are dark too.)

  Joseph drove without looking up. His hands were loose on the wheel, but Pol could hear the firmness in his tone.

  "Target lang natin si Javier ngayong gabi."

  (Our only target tonight is Javier.)

  Ricky let out a soft scoff.

  "Baka sulit tingnan 'yung nasa taas, tatlong palapag yun, sobrang halaga.”

  (Maybe it’s worth checking upstairs, three whole floors, that’s worth a lot.)

  Joseph’s jaw moved, almost smiling but not quite.

  "May senator-level security 'yun kung ganyan ang plano."

  (That place will have senator-level security if we go for that.)

  Banjo leaned back from the passenger seat, tablet balanced on his knees.

  "Sabi ng source ko, walang sariling security si Javier sa unit niya; nakaasa siya sa security ng buong building. Hindi namin alam kung may internal security si Marius Zhu, ang may-ari ng fifty-four hanggang fifty-seven. Hindi natin pwedeng i-risk iyon."

  (My sources say Javier doesn’t have private security in his unit; he relies on the building’s security. We don’t know if Marius Zhu, who owns fifty-four to fifty-seven, has internal security. We can’t risk that.)

  The van passed a billboard glowing with the promise of a “better life”, smiling couples in white kitchens, their whole existence airbrushed. The light from it spilled through the windshield and briefly made the dashboard’s plastic look expensive.

  "Uulitin ba natin ang plano?"

  (Should we go over the plan again?) Banjo asked.

  "Hindi masama na ulitin."

  (It wouldn’t hurt to go over it again.) Tonnette’s voice carried a calm that felt rehearsed.

  Banjo tapped the tablet, tracing the floor plan with a fingertip.

  "Ang kaibigan namin na kontratista, nag-aayos sa isang unit sa forty. Pinayagan silang magtrabaho sa gabi dahil bakante ang mga palapag sa taas at baba. May dala ba kayong fake IDs?"

  (Our contractor friend is working on a unit on the fortieth floor. They were allowed to work at night because the floors above and below are empty. Do you have your fake IDs?)

  "Meron."

  (We have them.)

  Celine made a face. "Ang pangalang 'Julia Mendoza' halata peke."

  (The name 'Julia Mendoza' sounds fake.)

  Ricky waved her off. "Hindi 'yan poproblemahin ng guard."

  (The guards won’t think too hard about that.)

  Banjo continued.

  "Papapasukin tayo sa service entrance. Ang service elevator may CCTV at weight monitor kaya limitado lang ang gamit, pwedeng magpunta mula service lobby papunta sa forty at pabalik lang. Mula doon, aakyat tayo sa service stairs papunta sa fifty-three."

  (We’ll enter through the service entrance. The service elevator has CCTV and a weight monitor, so it’s limited, we can only go from the service lobby to the fortieth floor and back. From there, we’ll take the service stairs up to the fifty-third.)

  Pol noticed how people eased up when the plan sounded smaller. Manageable. Joseph kept his eyes on the road. Banjo spoke like every step was already muscle memory. Tonnette chewed her fingernail. Celine tugged at her bag strap, already becoming her fake name. Ricky stayed quiet, but his silence felt like someone folding a bigger idea away for later.

  "Ang contractor ko, sabi niya, malabong makasalamuha tayo ng staff sa hagdan dahil karamihan ng mga multi-floor units may sariling internal floor o elevator. Pero kung sakali, magbabihis tayo ng staff uniform sa forty kapag nagkaroon ng pagkakataon."

  (My contractor says it’s unlikely we’ll meet staff on the stairs because most multi-floor units have internal floors or elevators. But just in case, we’ll change into staff uniforms on the fortieth floor when we get the chance.)

  Pol pictured the crisp, clean shirt of a building staff uniform, something meant to be invisible. He could almost feel the rough fabric against his skin, hear the creak of the stairs, smell the stale concrete air. The Montejo building’s darkened fifty-third floor seemed to be waiting for them, like a held breath.

  Banjo’s finger traced the route on the tablet like a teacher with a map as he continued.

  "Pag-akyat natin sa fifty-three, si Ricky ang magbubukas ng lock."

  (Once we get up to the fifty-third floor, Ricky will open the locks.)

  "Si Joseph mauuna para mag-check kung may automated security. Pag nagbigay siya ng signal na clear, papasok tayo at kukunin lahat ng puwedeng makuha sa loob ng labinlimang minuto, walang cash, walang medical device, walang custom na madaling ma-track. Generic luxury items lang, kagaya ng dati."

  (Joseph will head in first to check for automated security. Once he gives the all clear, we’ll go in and take whatever we can in fifteen minutes, no cash, no medical devices, no custom items that are easily trackable. Just generic luxury items, like usual.)

  "May tanong ba kayo?"

  (Any questions?)

  The van stayed quiet. This wasn’t their first rodeo, Pol could tell from the way no one shifted in their seat, no one cleared their throat. But it was his first.

  Joseph’s eyes stayed on the road as he spoke.

  "Clear ba sa’yo, Pol?"

  (You clear on the plan, Pol?)

  "Opo." (Yes.) His voice came out steady enough, though his chest felt tight.

  "Nervous ka, pero ready ka rin." (You’re nervous, but you’re ready.) Joseph said it like it was a fact, not a question. "Wag kang mag-alala. Paulit-ulit na namin ‘to nagawa. Nandito kami sa likod mo." (Don’t worry. We’ve done this dozens of times. We’ve got your back.)

  The others murmured their agreement, small grunts, a chuckle, the sound of someone tapping the seat in rhythm with the road. Pol just nodded. "Salamat." (Thanks.)

  The van rolled up to the gates of Montejo Heights. The guard in the booth took their IDs, one by one, reading them with the kind of unhurried pace that made each second stretch. Pol felt every beat of his heart like a tap against the inside of his ribs.

  Joseph, leaning his arm on the window frame, tried small talk. "Maulan kagabi, ‘di ba?" (Rained last night, huh?) The guard gave a polite half-smile but didn’t stop reading.

  After what felt like forever, the guard reached for his radio. "Anim na incoming." (Six incoming.) A crackle of reply came from the other end, and then the guard pointed toward a dim driveway, the opposite of the grand, chandelier-lit sweep of the main lobby.

  Joseph nodded. "Salamat, boss." (Thanks, boss.)

  They followed the curve to a squat, shadowed service entrance. Another guard stepped out, waving them toward a side parking slot. They climbed out of the van, the air here smelling faintly of oil and wet concrete.

  "Ang babata niyo ah," the guard remarked. (You all look so young.)

  Joseph shot back without missing a beat. "Mas mura ang labor pag bata." (Labor’s cheaper when you’re young.) The others laughed, easy and short, and the guard moved on.

  Inside, a small counter with a logbook waited. The guard pointed. "Pirma, tapos tingin sa camera." (Sign, then look at the camera.)

  Pol had known this part was coming, Banjo had told them, but it still sat wrong in his stomach. He didn’t know how Banjo would make it disappear later, if anyone ever checked. But now wasn’t the time to stall. He signed, then lifted his chin toward the lens. The red light blinked. His face was now on file.

  The guard waved them toward the service elevator. It had no buttons except Ground, Close, Open, and Hold. No way to choose floors. The guard swiped his card at the wall terminal outside. A small digital display flashed 40.

  He didn’t follow them in, just turned back to his desk as the doors slid shut, sealing them in the quiet box of steel and faintly humming machinery.

  The ride up was smooth, too smooth. The smoothest elevator Pol had ever ridden. He was used to the kind of lifts in construction sites or government offices: old metal boxes that croaked with every floor, cables groaning like they were tired of holding you up. This was just a service elevator, yet it glided upward like something out of another world, no lurch, no tremor, not even the faint grind of machinery.

  Joseph’s hand landed on his shoulder. Warm, steady.

  "Ayos ka lang ba?" (You alright?)

  Pol nodded, though the weight in his stomach told another story. "Kinakabahan… pero ayos lang. Siguro… excited pa nga." (I’m nervous… but I’m fine. Maybe… even excited.)

  Joseph’s smile reached his eyes. “Good.”

  Before Pol could think of anything else to say, the doors slid open. He hadn’t even felt the elevator slow down.

  The 40th floor greeted them with a dim hallway, bare concrete floors, walls painted the bland white of service corridors. The air was cooler here, almost dry. Waiting in the hallway was a man leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed.

  They all stepped out, standing still until the elevator doors closed behind them with a soft thunk.

  "Pare," Banjo greeted, clasping the man’s hand. (Bro.)

  Pol took in the space while they spoke. It matched what Banjo had described: a tucked-away service area. The stairwell door was right beside them, a gray metal frame yawning open into a dark shaft below. Somewhere above those stairs was their target.

  Banjo’s friend gestured them forward. The unit’s entrance was just a few steps away, a wide, unfinished space.

  Inside, the floor was bare concrete, gritty under Pol’s shoes. Temporary work lights cast a yellow haze over everything, their cords snaking across the ground. Plastic sheets hung over some sections, catching the glow and rippling faintly when the air moved. In the far corner, a stack of drywall leaned against the wall, next to bags of cement slit open and hardened at the edges. The smell was sharp, dust, paint primer, and the faint metallic tang of new plumbing.

  No one else was inside. The supposed “night work” was nothing more than a story to tell security.

  The friend pointed toward a corner. "Diyan niyo ilagay ‘yung gamit." (Put your tools there.)

  They all moved at once, stowing their fake contractor bags before stripping down to change into the building staff uniforms.

  Pol followed their rhythm, trying to keep up with the quick, unspoken efficiency. Celine, whom he’d always thought of as a bubbly college girl, was suddenly precise, each movement deliberate. The others too. Jokes and casual postures from earlier were gone; their faces and bodies had sharpened into something leaner, more purposeful.

  Pol let that energy pull him along, the tempo of their actions syncing with his own. He buttoned the uniform shirt, felt its stiff collar against his neck, and slid a small foldable bag into his pocket. For the jewelry later.

  Somewhere above them, a darkened door was waiting.

  Joseph’s voice cut through the still air.

  "Banjo, ready ka na ba?" (Banjo, are you ready?)

  "Oo, handa na." (Yeah, ready.)

  "Tonette?"

  "Ready."

  "Celine?"

  "All set."

  Then his eyes landed on Pol. "Ikaw, Pol?" (You, Pol?)

  Pol swallowed. “Handa na." (Ready.)

  Joseph gave a small nod before turning to Ricky. "Ikaw? Lahat okay na? At Ricky, si Javier ang target, hindi si Marius. May oras para maging mainit ang ulo, pero hindi ngayon. Ok?" (You? Everything okay? And Ricky, Javier is the target, not Marius. There’s a time to be a hothead, but not today. Clear?)

  “Clear."

  Joseph’s gaze swept over them all. "Pagpasok natin, sisimulan ang labinlimang minuto. Understood?" (Once we enter, the fifteen minutes start. Understood?)

  "Understood," (Understood,) they answered together, voices flat but firm.

  And then they moved.

  The stairwell swallowed them whole, thirteen flights of concrete steps in a narrow shaft that smelled faintly of metal and dust. No one spoke. The only sounds were the soft scuff of rubber soles and the faint rasp of breath. Pol’s thighs began to burn halfway up, but he focused on matching the others’ quiet, deliberate pace. Silence cost more energy than noise.

  No one came down. No one came up.

  By the time they reached the 53rd floor landing, Pol’s shirt clung faintly to his back with sweat. They paused, catching their breath without letting it show in their faces.

  Ricky dropped his bag, pulling out a compact set of tools. The door in front of them was smooth, featureless, no knob, no handle, just an unbroken surface broken only by a small, dark panel Ricky began to work on. Pol didn’t know what it was for; he only knew it felt expensive.

  Banjo kept his eyes on the upward flight of stairs, Joseph on the downward, both scanning for movement. The air felt tighter here, as if the concrete walls themselves were listening.

  A faint click. Ricky’s shoulders relaxed. The door eased open a fraction, and Joseph slipped inside without a word.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Pol’s pulse thundered in his ears. Every what-if he’d tried to shove aside came rushing back: the guards, the cameras, the fact that this was someone else’s home.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Ricky drift toward the railing, peering upward. Pol stepped closer, tapped his shoulder. Ricky turned, and Pol raised his eyebrows in a way he hoped said: Remember what Joseph told you. Ricky’s mouth tightened, but he moved back toward the door, leaning against the wall instead.

  The seconds dragged.

  Then Joseph’s head appeared, his voice low. “All clear.”

  They moved fast, flooding into the dark, still air of Javier Montejo’s penthouse suite.

  The door opened into a store room, which led them to the kitchen. They slipped through it silently, stainless steel, marble, wood, all spotless. Beyond it, the condo opened into a vast living room, wide, high-ceilinged, framed by walls of glass. The others strode through without a second glance, but Pol froze at the threshold.

  He’d helped build places like this before, hauling tiles, sanding walls, but he’d never been around for the final stage, never seen them alive with furniture and light. This was the kind of home he thought only existed in TV dramas: sleek couches, art on the walls, every object exactly where it belonged.

  He drifted toward one of the couches and let his fingers brush the fabric. Soft. Cool.

  Cool… that’s when he noticed the air itself, neither cold nor warm, but perfectly still and weightless. Even the smell felt expensive, a faint aroma that wrapped the room without shouting for attention.

  And suddenly, he pictured Javier Montejo coming home from that relocation consultation in Tondo two months ago, Javier sinking into this couch, sipping something cold, while Pol had returned to Aling Rosa’s tin-roof shack, the air thick with heat, the street outside drowning in noise.

  "Pol," Joseph’s voice cut through the haze. "Ayos ka lang?" (You okay?)

  Pol blinked, remembering where he was. "Oo, ayos lang. Na-overwhelm lang." (Yeah, I’m fine. Just… overwhelmed.)

  Joseph nodded toward the far corner. "Simulan mo diyan." (Start there.)

  Pol obeyed, pushing into the first door he found.

  It wasn’t a bedroom.

  He’d expected… something normal, even by rich standards. Maybe an office like in TV shows, maybe a private gym. But instead…

  A garden. Inside a condo.

  Not a balcony setup, but a real indoor garden, the floor covered in gravel and soil. Lush greenery rose in perfect arrangements, and in the center sat a small table with two chairs, like a hidden tea spot. Beyond the plants, floor-to-ceiling windows hinted at the Makati skyline, a sprawl of lights far below.

  Pol found a switch by the door and flicked it.

  The entire ceiling erupted in blindingly bright daylight. He flinched, eyes stinging, and shut it off immediately. Nothing here looked easy to carry, let alone sell.

  He pulled the door shut behind him and moved on.

  The next door down the hallway looked more promising.

  A study, walls lined with smooth, dark bookcases, each one filled with books that had actually been read. The spines were worn, some corners dog-eared. Heavy curtains kept the light out. A sleek desk sat in front of the windows, its surface dotted with a few neatly arranged knickknacks.

  Two metallic pens caught his eye, polished, expensive-looking. He turned them over in his hand. No engravings. Good. He unfolded the small bag from his pocket and slipped them inside.

  He tried the desk drawers. Papers. Stationery. Nothing worth taking, until one drawer slid open to reveal a folded aerial map. Curiosity hooked him before caution could stop him.

  He pulled it out.

  There, photographs of his neighborhood in Tondo, from before the fire. The jumble of roofs, the narrow alleys, the familiar shapes of home captured from far above. He flipped through the documents quickly, and then he saw it: a glossy image of the future. A gleaming development, pristine and towering. Even though he’d never been there, he recognized it instantly, it was meant to stand where his home had been.

  A knot formed in his chest.

  He shoved the papers back in the drawer and closed it harder than necessary. That life was gone. He told himself that again.

  Searching the room again, he found nothing else worth carrying. Most valuables here were heavy, art pieces, furniture, nothing he could fold into a bag.

  He stepped out.

  In the kitchen, Ricky was crouched in front of the refrigerator, stuffing his bag with cheeses, jars, whatever caught his fancy. Pol moved on to the next room.

  A bedroom, sleek and spotless, the kind he’d only seen in hotel ads. No photographs. No clothes. Guest room, he guessed. Remembering Celine’s tip about toiletries, he headed into the bathroom.

  The place gleamed, white marble walls and floor, polished to a shine. In the shower niche sat a row of bottles. He read the label: Le Labo. The name meant nothing to him, but it sounded expensive enough. He swept them all into his bag.

  Nothing else worth taking. He slipped out, moving quickly.

  He stepped into another bedroom. This one felt lived in, clothes draped over a chair, framed photographs on the wall, a faint scent of cologne still lingering in the air. The master bedroom, he guessed. Beautiful, in that polished, effortless way rich people’s spaces always seemed to be.

  Before he could start searching, a hand clamped lightly on his shoulder.

  Joseph.

  Already checked this one, his eyes said before his mouth did. Pol nodded, swallowing his disappointment, and followed him out.

  His bag felt light. Too light. Just a couple of pens and some toiletries, nothing to brag about when they compared hauls later. He broke off toward the kitchen, pulling open drawers and cupboards.

  Jackpot.

  An unopened knife set, the price tag still dangling, worth more than a year’s wages back when he was still in construction. He slid the box into his bag, the weight of it satisfying. Then another find: a full tableware set, the label boasting that it was made of silver. That, too, went into the bag.

  The vibration in his pocket jolted him, it had been fifteen minutes already.

  He closed the drawers, zipped the bag, and straightened just as the others began to regroup. One by one, they appeared, each with bulging packs.

  They were heading for the service stairwell when the sound hit them, a crisp ding that echoed through the suite.

  The elevator.

  Every muscle in Pol’s body locked up. The main elevator doors began to slide open. Without a word, they all bolted through the service door. Ricky yanked it shut behind them.

  Pol’s heart thundered.

  They started down, but then, footsteps. Not just one set. Several. Heavy, labored, climbing toward them. Going up had been easy, they’d had uniforms, a story. But now they were burdened with heavy bags that screamed theft. And the penthouse? Off-limits now, someone was inside.

  Pol’s eyes snapped to Joseph.

  The man’s face was steady, unreadable. He tilted his chin upward, then started climbing instead of descending. They all followed, careful to keep their footfalls soft.

  They stopped at a landing marked 56. The stairs continued up one more flight, likely to the roof deck, but Joseph lifted a hand, signaling halt. He leaned in, whispering that the people in the stairwells downstairs were likely staff moving between unconnected floors. It’s unlikely that they’d go up here.

  So they waited.

  It was only a short wait before the footsteps below faded away. Joseph gave the signal, two fingers flicking forward, and they began their descent.

  They had barely dropped one flight when Pol froze.

  Someone was waiting at the landing door.

  A tall woman stood there, dressed in an all-black three-piece suit that seemed to drink in the stairwell’s dim light. She didn’t move aside. Her gaze swept over them, calm and deliberate, like she already knew every detail worth knowing.

  Pol’s stomach tightened.

  A scuff of shoes above made him glance up. Another figure, this one a man, leaned casually against the railing one flight higher. His suit was simpler, but no less sharp. The way he stood told Pol there was no getting past him either.

  Trapped.

  The woman’s voice was smooth, almost polite.

  “Joseph? Is it? We’ve been expecting you. Please, come inside.”

  Pol’s eyes darted to Joseph.

  The man who had been steady through every close call was suddenly pale, lips tight, as if the air had been pulled from his lungs.

  * * * * *

  Pol sat stiffly at first, then gave in to the pull of the sofa. It was the most comfortable thing his back and legs had ever touched, deep cushions that seemed to know exactly where to hold him, fabric smooth but warm against his palms. He didn’t know what it was made of, but it felt like it belonged in a place where people didn’t worry about sweat stains or crumbs.

  The room itself was strange to him. It didn’t shout rich the way TV condos did. There was no gold trim, no shiny chandeliers, no glass tables that looked like they’d shatter if you breathed on them. It was… quiet, in a way. Every piece, chairs, tables, shelves, looked like it had been chosen carefully, not because it matched, but because it belonged. The colors were soft, not bright, like they’d been faded on purpose. There were no family photos, no clutter. To someone else, maybe this meant expensive taste. To Pol, it was just foreign, like being in a home from a country he’d never visited, decorated in a language he couldn’t read.

  Despite the tension in his chest, his body kept sinking deeper into the sofa. He tried to picture what was coming. Were these people calling the cops? Would they find out about that, about him being under witness protection? His throat tightened. If they did, would they send him to jail? What about Banjo, Tonette, Ricky? Could schools expel you for something like this?

  He forced the thoughts away and looked across the room. One wall was dominated by a painting so big it felt like a window. All of it was red, every shade of it. The longer he stared, the more it seemed to move, shapes swirling into jagged flames, twisted faces, maybe even bones. Hell. That’s what it looked like to him.

  The woman in black entered, a maid following close behind, pushing a trolley that clinked softly with glass.

  “What refreshments do you prefer?” she asked.

  No one answered.

  “Iced tea for everyone, they must be tired from their work tonight,” she decided, and the maid began pouring, the amber liquid swirling in tall glasses. A slice of lime floated in each one. The maid set them gently on the coffee table, each on a thin fabric coaster embroidered with the letters M.Z. in white thread.

  Pol avoided the woman’s eyes, turning instead back to the painting. Something new caught his attention, right in the middle, where the reds burned darkest, there was a spot of blue.

  “You like this piece, yes?” the woman’s voice reached him. “It’s a depiction of hell. That blue, in the center”, she pointed, the gesture deliberate, “is meant to represent innocence and purity, even in such a place.”

  She smiled faintly. “It was created by a retired artist, Isagani Tan. We took great pains just to acquire it.”

  Pol didn’t answer. His gaze stayed on the blue spot, the only part of the painting that didn’t make him feel like the room was closing in.

  Silence. Not the heavy, tense kind he’d seen in movies where everyone’s knuckles were white and jaws clenched, this was worse. No one even shifted in their seat. The woman stood there with a smile so casual it felt almost cruel, as if they were just neighbors meeting in the lobby.

  Another man in a suit stepped in, silent, holding a tablet in both hands. He gave it to her without a word, then left just as quickly. The maid, done with the iced tea, slipped out too. That left only the six of them, and her.

  She swiped through the tablet slowly, making soft oh dear sounds, the kind you’d hear from a neighbor who caught you knocking over her potted plant. Concern in tone, warmth in delivery. It wasn’t comforting. It was unsettling, like she already knew how this story ended. Her tongue clicked softly, tsk, tsk, tsk, as if she was reading their fate right off the glass.

  “Oh my,” she said finally, voice lilting, “these are some grave reports, I must say.” She lifted her head, the smile never fading. “But where are my manners? I haven’t introduced myself. I am Sabina Reyes-Hartwell, Chief of Security for Mr. Marius Zhu.”

  She let the name hang in the air before continuing. “Now… if my reports are correct, you are Joseph Makiling, Celine Mercado, Tonette Ilustre, Banjo Regala, Ricky de Vera…” She glanced down again. “…and Apolinario Guerrero.”

  Pol felt Joseph’s head turn toward him, and he met his friend’s puzzled look. The name stung his ears, sharp and strange after so long. No one here, not even Joseph, had heard it before. They only knew Leopoldo. That was the name he was supposed to have now.

  “ ‘Apolinario?’” Ricky’s voice cut through. “Who the fuck is that?”

  Sabina didn’t miss a beat. “The man sitting right there.” She gestured toward Pol without even looking up.

  Ricky frowned. “His name’s Leopoldo.”

  She glanced back at the tablet, tapping the screen with sudden delight. “Ah, yes, that’s right. He changed his name to Leopoldo. My apologies for the confusion.”

  Ricky’s brow furrowed. “Changed his name?”

  Pol felt heat creeping up his neck, but before anyone could speak, Sabina moved on.

  The massive television behind her flickered to life. Pol’s gut sank as the screen showed grainy black-and-white footage, houses, driveways, familiar dark shapes moving through shadows. Even with the poor quality, he recognized his friends instantly in the silhouettes. The angles changed, living rooms, staircases, garage doors. Places they’d been. Things they’d taken.

  “As you can see,” Sabina said, as though commenting on a school project, “you lovely group of kids are famous. Twenty-six houses in a year is mighty impressive, I must say.”

  Her eyes slid toward them, sharp now. “I have to ask, though, why is it you all seem to avoid cash? Is it for any particular reason?”

  The room stayed still. No one spoke. Pol kept his eyes on the edge of the coffee table, where the initials M.Z. glimmered faintly on the coaster.

  “Never mind then.” She waved it away lightly. “Don’t you boys and girls worry. The police have not been called. I’m not here to put you in trouble.”

  She leaned back, almost amused. “I’m here to give you a job offer.”

  “You see,” Sabina began, her voice smooth, conversational, “we’ve been tracking your group for months now. And we have been… very impressed with your skills. Not just anyone can move through the gated communities of this city undetected for as long as you have. You have broken into the houses of singers, directors, senators, investment bankers, CEOs. It is a sight to behold, truly.”

  Her gaze swept over them slowly, like she was reading the air in the room. “So,” she continued, “we paid off your friend downstairs to feed you all the right tips, to make our friend Javier an enticing target, just so we could have this little chat.”

  Pol’s head snapped toward Banjo. He didn’t even try to hide it. Banjo’s face had gone pale, his lips pressed tight. The sight hit Pol like a stomach punch. This wasn’t some random betrayal, Banjo had vouched for this friend, told them he was solid, trustworthy. And now here they were, sitting in someone else’s living room with their whole operation laid bare.

  Joseph finally broke the silence, his voice low but firm. “Since you already knew our full names, why didn’t you just contact us directly?”

  Sabina’s smile didn’t falter. “Think of this as a controlled job interview. We needed to see your skills firsthand, how you moved, how you planned. Though…” she glanced at her tablet again, “…perhaps Javier’s penthouse was a bit too lax on security to give me a full picture. I’m sad I didn’t get to see your parkour skills, Tonette.”

  Tonette shifted in her seat but said nothing, her eyes fixed on some point on the floor.

  Joseph leaned forward, reached for one of the sweating glasses on the coffee table, and took a slow sip of iced tea. The clink of the glass touching the coaster was the only sound in the room.

  Pol didn’t move. The condensation from his own untouched glass pooled on the coaster, darkening the embroidered initials. He wasn’t thinking about the tea, he was still replaying Banjo’s expression, and wondering if this “job interview” was going to end with them walking out of here… or not walking out at all.

  “I can’t speak for everyone,” Joseph said, voice steady, “but since we’re already a captive audience… I’d like to know what this job offer is, and where your boss, Marius Zhu, is.”

  Sabina’s face brightened, her tall, imposing frame almost softening with delight. For a split second, it was as if the towering woman in the sharp black suit was a giddy schoolgirl being asked to share her favorite secret. “I’m so glad you’re warming up to the prospect,” she said, clasping her hands lightly in front of her.

  “My employer,” she continued, “is busy with other work elsewhere in the city. If you’d like to meet him personally, that can be arranged for another day. But for now… you have me.” Her eyes gleamed, the kind of gleam that made Pol feel she already knew every answer they’d give before the questions were even asked. “As for the job, it’s quite simple, really. Instead of choosing houses to rob on your own, you rob the houses we choose, and you steal the items we specify. Simple, yes?”

  The air in the room tightened. Nobody said anything right away. Pol’s gaze darted between his friends. Tonette’s jaw was set, Banjo was still visibly shaken from earlier, and Ricky… Ricky’s expression was somewhere between defiance and suspicion.

  “Look,” Ricky said finally, leaning forward, “we don’t steal just for money. We choose our targets for a reason.”

  Sabina’s smile never wavered. “Not to worry, Mr. Ricky,” she said smoothly. “Mr. Marius is well aware of your… charitable goals, and the symbolic reasons behind your targets. Rest assured, most of the people we send you after will be perfectly aligned with your ideological tastes.” She paused, as if savoring the next part. “And you will be paid, handsomely, so that you can donate as much as you wish to whatever charity you choose.”

  Pol didn’t trust the softness in her tone, the way she’d dressed up the idea of being owned as if it were a gift. His stomach tightened, not just from the offer itself, but from the fact that she seemed to already know exactly what buttons to press to make them think about saying yes.

  Celine finally broke her silence. Her voice was calm, but her eyes were sharp on Sabina. “If things go bad and we get caught, is there any protection? When we choose and go after our targets, we shoulder our risks. If we take orders from you, we’d be shouldering your risks. Not ours.”

  Sabina’s smile deepened, like a teacher pleased a student had asked the right question. “Ah, that’s reasonable. Such a bright kid, no wonder you’re at the top of your class.” She pivoted back to the pitch as if she’d been waiting for the question all along. “Mr. Marius Zhu has at his disposal multiple legal and economic resources to protect the contractors who work for him. I understand a simple promise of protection isn’t enough. So, as a show of good faith… and to give an example of our capabilities… we can lend a hand in your uncle’s current criminal proceedings. I understand he’s facing more than ten years. Correct?”

  Celine’s mouth parted. “How did you…” she muttered, but didn’t finish.

  Sabina didn’t let her. “To further prove our good faith: you are free to decline our offer and return to your lives. Continue your Robin Hood operation if you like. We will not share our information with law enforcement or the media, and we will persuade Mr. Javier Montejo not to pursue your little break-in. We are not your friends, but we are not your enemies either.” Her tone grew harder, the velvet giving way to steel. “I fully expect you to doubt our intentions. Frankly, I’d be disappointed if you accepted too easily. But know this, your operations are not as private as you think. If we can get these footages”, she gestured toward the TV, where their past burglaries still played on a loop, “imagine what law enforcement could do if they truly decided to chase you.”

  She let that hang for a moment before adding, “What we offer you is more resources than any of your hauls could muster, and a certain amount of safety and protection if need be.”

  Pol’s eyes drifted over the group. Joseph’s brow was furrowed, his jaw tight, the iced tea in his hand already half finished. Banjo was staring at the coffee table, avoiding everyone’s eyes, the set of his shoulders small and defensive. Tonette had her arms crossed and her lips pressed thin, like she was holding in a snarl. Ricky leaned back into the sofa with the defiant slouch of someone who wanted to look like he wasn’t rattled, but Pol could see his foot tapping a restless rhythm on the carpet.

  Celine… Celine’s gaze was locked on the floor, but her mind was clearly miles away, maybe weighing her uncle’s freedom against the danger of taking this deal.

  And Pol? He sat there, the weight of it all sinking like cold water into his bones. It wasn’t just the offer. It was the fact that Sabina seemed to know everything, their names, their pasts, their weaknesses, even the personal crises they’d never shared with each other. She was holding all the cards. And no matter what they chose next, Pol couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d already won.