Vale woke up inside a garbage bin.
The smell hit him before the pain—rotting food, wet paper, rusted metal, and something sour that burned his throat. His head throbbed violently as he tried to sit up. The world spun, darkness pressing in from all sides.
Someone laughed.
"Still breathing?" a voice said. "Guess today's your lucky day."
Vale groaned and forced himself to move. His arms shook as he climbed out of the bin, collapsing onto the cold street the moment his feet touched the ground. His ribs screamed in protest. He coughed hard, bile rising in his throat, and vomited beside the bin.
People were already walking past.
A woman pulled her child closer.
A man wrinkled his nose in disgust.
Someone spat near Vale's feet.
"Thief," a voice muttered.
Vale lay there for a moment, staring at the pale morning sky, wondering how many times a man could fail before the pain stopped meaning anything.
He hadn't always been like this.
Once, Vale had been a student. Not brilliant, but sharp enough. Curious. He believed education was supposed to open doors. Instead, all he saw were rising fees, empty promises, and graduates fighting over jobs that barely paid enough to survive.
He dropped out halfway through his semester.
If the world only rewarded those who already had power, then stealing felt… honest.
At least, that was the excuse he used.
The truth was simpler.
Vale wanted money. Not comfort—freedom. Enough to leave this town, this life, this constant humiliation behind.
Unfortunately, he was terrible at it.
Every robbery ended the same way: caught, beaten, thrown out like trash. The police knew his face. The town knew his name. They didn't bother arresting him anymore. Beating him was faster.
Last night had been worse than usual.
Vale dragged himself home, each step sending fresh waves of pain through his body. His room was small, poorly lit, and silent in a way that made his thoughts louder.
He collapsed onto the sofa and turned on the television, more for noise than interest.
News footage flickered across the screen—robberies, arrests, warnings. Vale watched carefully, memorizing locations. Not to copy them.
To avoid them.
He pulled a crumpled map from his drawer and spread it across the table.
"Where next?" he muttered.
His finger traced streets and neighborhoods. He took a sip of cheap beer and laughed softly.
"What a life."
The laughter died quickly.
Morning arrived cold and clear.
Vale opened his wooden door and stepped outside, inhaling deeply. The air felt sharp, clean—almost mocking.
"Nice weather," he said aloud. "Perfect day to rob someone."
He dressed carefully. Clean shirt. Pressed jacket. Looking respectable made people less suspicious. It was one of the few things he'd learned properly.
Hunger pushed him toward the park.
That's where he saw the watch.
Gold. Heavy. Expensive. Completely out of place.
An old man sat on a bench, eating slowly, utterly unaware. Vale's heartbeat quickened.
He moved on instinct.
A distraction. A light bump. Fingers quick and practiced.
The watch slid free.
For half a second, everything felt perfect.
Then a crow cried overhead.
The old man turned.
"Hey!" he shouted.
Vale ran.
A walking stick flew past his head, missing by inches. He didn't stop until his lungs burned and his chest ached violently.
Behind him, curses and laughter blended into noise.
Another failure survived.
That night, desperation pushed Vale further than usual.
He stood outside a quiet house nearly ten miles from his own. No lights. No dogs. No security.
"Please," he whispered into the dark. "Just once."
He climbed the wall, scraped his shoulder, and slipped inside. His hands trembled as he searched the bedroom. The man sleeping inside snored softly.
Vale reached beneath the pillow.
Keys.
His breath hitched.
The locker opened with a soft click.
Money. Real money.
His vision blurred as he stuffed it into his bag. As he fled, his shoulder scraped the wall again—and pain exploded through his chest. Not sharp. Heavy. Crushing.
Vale didn't stop running.
He collapsed onto his bed, laughing and gasping like a madman.
He had done it.
For the first time in his life, he had succeeded.
The pain didn't fade.
It lingered through the night, deep and persistent, like something pressing from the inside.
By morning, Vale's shirt was soaked with sweat.
He sat up slowly.
"What now?" he muttered.
The money lay on the floor where he'd dropped it. Enough to disappear for a while. Enough to start over.
Vale turned on the television.
"Last night," the reporter said, "a robbery occurred near the village. Police dogs lost the trail at a strange location—"
The screen changed.
Vale's street.
The camera lingered on a dark stain on the pavement.
Vomited bile.
His.
Vale's smile vanished.
The pressure in his chest pulsed once, slow and deliberate.
This wasn't luck.
This wasn't coincidence.
Something had changed the moment he took that money.
And whatever it was…
it hadn't finished with him yet.