CHAPTER 1

​

Loradale Falls. A total contrast to Gallows Gates and its environs. Sprawling estates, nestled behind wrought-iron fences and manicured hedges, whispered promises of riches and grandeur. Tonight, one such mansion, its façade bristling with watchful eyes—a network of security cameras glowing like fireflies—was about to be tested. Barbed wire, coiled tight like a serpent, guarded the mansion.

From the inky sprawl of night, two figures slithered. Blackhawk, a man built like a linebacker, his face obscured by a raptor’s predatory mask. Nightshade, his partner, moved with the silent grace of a panther, her dark clothing a second skin against the darkness. The cameras fell first, casualties of Nightshade’s meticulous handiwork. Her deft fingers danced across the surveillance system, rendering its watchful gaze blind.

Meanwhile, Blackhawk scrutinized the defense of the barbed wire fence, calculating his strategy. A smirk played beneath his avian mask, as charming as a shark’s grin. His utility belt revealed wire cutters, their metallic gleam hinting at tasks and secrets. With finesse, working with the practiced efficiency of a surgeon, he navigated the sharp strands, each snip matching his heartbeat as he created a breach in the seemingly impenetrable blockade.

Beyond the fence, their practiced efficiency propelled them forward. They glided through the darkness, imperceptible to unsuspecting witnesses.

Nearing the mansion, Nightshade scanned the façade, her eyes settling on a telltale sign—a partially open side window. With effortless grace, she ascended the trellis beside it. In seconds, she deftly unlocked the window, granting them access to the inner sanctum.

Inside, their movements were mere whispers against the plush carpets. Years of honed instinct guided them, a map etched not on paper but in the language of silence. The air hung heavy with the scent of wealth—vintage leather, polished wood, and the faint musk of expensive cigars. Noiselessly, they advanced, their target in clear sight: the owner’s study. Nightshade suspected it held secrets, perhaps even a hidden vault to safeguard those secrets even further.

The study’s door, a fortress of steel secured by the latest technology, presented a formidable challenge. Nightshade, ever resourceful, had anticipated this hurdle. A compact device materialized from her pocket, its purpose clear. With a practiced flick of her wrist, it whirred to life, a soft blue light emanating from its core. A tense silence followed, broken only by the lock’s startled gasp as it clicked open.

The study was a monument to the owner’s affluence. Paintings by masters adorned the walls, their brushstrokes shimmering with characteristic brilliance. But these were mere distractions. Their focus remained laser-sharp.

A bookshelf, intricately carved, seemed to hold an unnatural stillness. Nightshade ran her fingers along the wood, a practiced caress. A hidden spring yielded, a section of the shelf swinging inwards to reveal a cavity of gleaming steel. The vault.

Inside, a king’s ransom met their gaze—glittering diamonds winked like a gambler’s eye, crisp bills fanned out like a deck of marked cards, documents that spoke of whispered deals and offshore accounts. The spoils of a lifetime, ripe for the taking. Their hands moving with ease, they claimed their bounty.

Their escape was a replay of their entrance: swift, silent, unseen. As they melted back into the night, their prize heavy in their arms, the only evidence was the violated lock on the study door, a jarring note in the otherwise perfect score of the mansion.

Unbeknownst to the slumbering household, the family cat, Misty, made the hitherto dormant alarm spring to life as a result of her accidental nudge against the alarm sensor. The alarm sang its sorrowful aria into the desolate night. However, for the cunning pair—Blackhawk and Nightshade—it was a lullaby of triumph, the sound of their successful escape.