I'd heard better threats from hungrier men. "Shut up," I said, my voice rusty from disuse.
"Untie me now and maybe I'll just break your arms instead of your neck."
I almost laughed. Thieves were all the same—threats and bluster when caught. I'd seen plenty in my years on the street. Always taking what wasn't theirs, leaving misery in their wake. If they put half the effort into honest work that they did into stealing, they'd be rich.
"No," I said simply.
"Listen, kid, you don't want to get involved in this. This is between me and the Soldiers of Fortune. Let me go, walk away, and you'll never see me again."
I picked up the broken wheel from the statue that I'd carefully retrieved from the office. "You broke their statue," I said, holding it up. "And tried to steal from their computer."
"That's not—" He cut himself off, clearly realizing explaining his actual crime wouldn't help his case.
I stepped closer, making sure he could see my eyes. Most humans found something unsettling about them—too golden, too reflective, too unlike their own. "I don't like thieves."
He swallowed hard, looking away. "What are you going to do with me?"
I glanced toward the gate. "Nothing. They will."
Fear flashed across his face. "You can't leave me for them. You don't understand what they'll do."
I shrugged. "Should've thought of that before you broke in."
I checked the ropes one last time, making sure they were secure. The man continued to threaten and plead alternately, but I tuned him out. The distant rumble of motorcycle engines told me the club members would be returning soon.
My work here was done. I moved back toward the bushes, the broken motorcycle statue still clutched in my hand. I'd place it on the picnic table later as an offering—payment for breaking it. Maybe they'd forgive the damage when they saw what I'd caught for them.
I huddled back in my hiding spot, heart hammering against my ribs as the sound of approaching motorcycles grew louder. The engines' roar hit me like a physical blow—loud noises had always been my enemy, overloading my sensitive hearing and setting my nerves on edge.
I pressed my hands against my ears, trying to block out the worst of it as the bikers rolled through the gate and into the yard. They hadn't noticed the gift I'd left them yet. The thief remained tied to the picnic table, now gagged with a strip of his own shirt to silence his constant threats.
I'd added that touch just before retreating to the bushes.
The red-haired cook—Rooster—was among the last to park his bike. He removed his helmet, running a hand through his flaming hair before glancing toward my usual spot. Looking for me again. Something warm and uncomfortable stirred in my chest.
Then the shouting started.
"What the hell?"
"Butch! We've got a situation!"
"Someone get over here!"
The yard erupted into chaos as they discovered the bound man. Seven large, leather-clad bikers converged on the picnic table, voices overlapping in a painful assault on my ears. I cringed deeper into the foliage, fighting the urge to run.
I needed to see this through.
The bearded leader—Butch, they'd called him—barked orders I couldn't quite make out over the commotion. Two men hauled the thief to his feet while still attached to the table leg. Another removed the gag.
The thief started talking immediately, words tumbling out in a desperate stream. I couldn't hear everything, but caught snippets: "...just following orders..." and "...didn't get anything..." and "...wasn't my idea..."
Rooster stood slightly apart from the others, his head tilted as if sensing something. He turned slowly, scanning the edge of the yard, his gaze eventually settling near—but not directly on—my hiding spot.
I had a choice to make. I could stay hidden, let them deal with the thief however they wanted, and return to my regular pattern of accepting food left at night. Safe. Anonymous. Or I could make myself known, explain what had happened, maybe earn something more than scraps.
Dangerous. Exposed. But possibly worth it.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I moved just enough to make the bushes rustle deliberately. Rooster's eyes snapped to the movement, narrowing slightly. I raised one hand just high enough to be visible above the greenery, then beckoned him closer before withdrawing it again.
