"Uhhh....Are you sure about this? I don't even know exactly what I'm supposed to steal." Luck's voice carried a nervous edge, and his wisp bobbed beside him, mirroring his unease.
Rook slapped him on the back "Loosen up, kid. I've explained the job, like what, five times now? This stall looks like an ordinary street vendor, but it's just a front. Behind the scenes, they traffic kids, sell illegal goods, and run all kinds of nasty business."
They were crouched on a rooftop overlooking their target. Luck couldn't see, but Rook had drilled into him the importance of mapping his surroundings through sound, scent, and touch.
Luck inhaled deeply, rubbing the spot where Rook had slapped him. The city breathed around him—warm bread baking, the chatter of merchants, the distant laughter of playing children. Underneath it all, he could hear the subtle rustling of movement from the stall below.
"Yeah, I get the gist," Luck muttered, still uneasy. "But you didn't mention anything about… trafficking?"
Rook chuckled darkly. "You don't need to worry about all that right now. The point is, the stall is just the cover. The real job is to grab a small, discreet lootbox from under the counter. You'll know it when you touch it, it will probably have a hoarse feel to it since its rusting and there will most likely be some sort of lock on it." He grinned mischievously. "Don't worry, I've got your back. If you screw up, I'll be ready to pull you out."
Luck nodded slowly, still uneasy. "What if I get caught?"
Rook's tone became serious for a second. "Don't get caught." Then he added with a wink, "It's more fun that way. And remember what I said, map out the area with more than just one sense, train all of them equally that way you don't get disoriented if you lose one."
Luck shut his eyes—something he didn't need to do to focus—and took in the world around him.
"Focus not on all the crazy sound but the patterns, the occasional squeak of the vendor's cart, the shift in temperature as the sun sets, the breeze that is blowing in at irregular intervals, the children playing soccer. These are all important to understand and utilize."
Luck clenched his fists, steadying his breath. His wisp flitted anxiously around him, its presence a small but constant reassurance. The night air was cool against his skin, and the sounds of the market below painted a picture in his mind—coins clinking, the occasional murmur of hushed conversations, footsteps weaving through the crowd.
"Alright," Luck muttered, shaking out his hands. "Tell me the plan again. One last time."
Rook chuckled. "Nervous? Good. Means you won't be reckless." He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. "The vendor's a greedy bastard. He keeps the real goods stashed under the counter, locked in a box. Your job is to slip in, find the latch, and grab what's inside. Should be small enough to carry."
Luck frowned. "And what if it's not?"
"Then you leave it," Rook said firmly. "You're not here to be a hero, just to do the job. Get in, get out, no unnecessary risks."
Luck exhaled slowly. He didn't like how easily Rook brushed off the mention of trafficking, but he pushed the thought aside. This wasn't about that. It was about proving himself—learning how to survive.
His wisp pulsed gently, as if urging him forward.
"Alright, kid," Rook said, ruffling Luck's hair before he could dodge. "Show me what you've got."
Luck crept down the fire escape, every move deliberate. His cane tapped against the metal railings in a soft rhythm, guiding him without making too much noise.
When he arrived on the ground he slowly made his to the sound of chains or metal jangling, an indication of where the keeper's accessory cart was located.
He made his way past a small crowd of people and approached the stall in silence. The wisp hovered close to him, its presence flickering with anticipation. Luck took a slow breath, his fingers lightly brushing against the fabric of a passerby as he weaved through the shifting bodies in the marketplace. Each step was measured, each movement purposeful—his senses mapping the stall's surroundings in real-time.
The sound of metal jingling grew clearer, the faint clinking of chains marking the vendor's cart. There. Luck adjusted his grip on his cane, angling it slightly to disguise his movements as he neared the stall.
The scent of aged wood and oiled leather reached him first, mixed with the sharper tang of metal trinkets. He listened intently—every scrape of cloth, every murmured negotiation. The vendor's voice was deep, probably rough from years of shouting. From the way he spoke, Luck could tell he was dealing with multiple customers at once.
Even if the vendor was momentarily distracted by those customers, it wouldn't cause him to completely let down his guard, Luck needed a scheme that allowed him to grab the lootbox and escape without causing the man to chase him.
Luck's mind raced. A simple grab-and-run wouldn't work—he couldn't always count on being faster. He needed something subtle, something that would make the man choose to ignore him, at least for a few crucial moments.
His fingers tightened around his cane. A scheme began to form.
Luck took a slow breath, centering himself. Then, with a carefully measured step, he let the tip of his cane catch on the edge of a crate stacked near the stall. It was already loose from the children kicking it with their ball earlier so all it took was a slightly forceful nudge.
CRASH.
The crate tipped, spilling its contents—small wooden trinkets and delicate ornaments—onto the cobbled ground.
The vendor cursed, his attention snapping toward the mess. A few bystanders flinched at the sudden noise, turning their gazes toward the commotion.
"Oi! Watch where you're going, brat!" the vendor barked.
Luck flinched back, lifting his hands apologetically. "S-sorry, sir! I—I didn't see—" He gestured vaguely toward his eyes, letting his posture sag just a little.
The vendor's grumble turned into an exasperated sigh. "Tch. Just my luck," he muttered, already bending down to collect the scattered trinkets. A few people from the crowd had stopped to watch, murmuring among themselves.
"Here let me help" Luck offered as he went behind the counter and bent down in motion to pick up the items blindly. He didn't really know where to start so he just felt around the floor in order to signal that he was attempting to help them.
As the vendor and a helper also busied themselves with the mess, Luck shifted forward in a natural motion, his hands brushing against the wooden counter. He let his fingers trail along the underside—searching, feeling—until he found it.
The lootbox.
It was just as Rook had described. Rough to the touch, edges worn from rust, a simple latch securing it shut.
Luck didn't hesitate. With practiced ease, he lifted the box, tucking it under his cloth in one fluid movement. The wisp pulsed beside him, flickering with urgency. He had to move.
Luck kept his breathing steady, forcing his body to remain relaxed. A sudden jerk or hesitation would raise suspicion.
"Ah, I finally got one!" he said, picking up a wooden carving and handing it toward the vendor's helper. He made a show of patting the ground, searching for more, while subtly shifting the lootbox closer to his body.
"You know what kid, you've done enough today just... get out of my sight" The vendor said, barely sparing him a hlance.
Luck didn't need to be told twice. He gave a quick, awkward nod and turned on his heel, walking away with steady steps. He kept his posture casual, resisting the urge to clutch the lootbox tighter beneath his tattered cloth.
One step. Two steps. Three.
No shouts. No hands grabbing him from behind.
The moment he was out of the vendor's immediate view, he subtly picked up his pace, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. He let the sounds of the market guide him—voices overlapping, carts creaking, the scent of cooked food mixing with the dampness of the streets.
Just as he was about to disappear further into the crowd, a sharp whistle cut through the marketplace noise.
Fweet!
Luck's ears twitched toward the sound. Rook. He was nearby. Luck angled himself toward the source, adjusting his pace to avoid drawing attention. The wisp flitted beside him, pulsing lightly as if sensing his relief.
Keeping his breathing steady, he followed the whistle.