Chapter 1 The Thieving Hand


    January 3, 2025. Friday. 11:55 p.m.


    Okay, deep breath. Bonnett mask? Check. Comfy jogging pants? Check. Hoodie? Check. Duffel bag? Check. Gloves? Check. Couldn’t hurt to have extra layers, but damn, it was hot up here. I’d been wedged in the ceiling for hours, waiting for Chad’s family to finish dinner and settle in for the night. The smell of their roast beef was still in my nose, and my stomach reminded me—loudly—that I hadn’t eaten.


    Why was I on the ceiling, you might ask? Fair question. Long answer short: I could go intangible, phase through walls, and—if I was careful—crawl into places most people couldn’t.


    What was an 18-year-old doing hiding in his classmate’s—er, ex-classmate’s—house on a Friday night? Another fair question. No, it wasn’t revenge, even though Chad was a grade-A jerk who made high school hell for me. No, this wasn’t about him. This was about me… and the fact that I needed money.


    This was my first big score, or at least, I hoped it would be. My first “criminal undertaking,” as people might call it. My grand debut as a cape. Well, not exactlya cape. I didn’t do costumes. They were stupid, uncomfortable, and screamed, Look at me, I have powers!No thanks. I liked my joggers-and-hoodie setup just fine. Amateurs represent.


    The house was dark and quiet now, save for the soft buzz of a TV downstairs. I carefully phased through the ceiling and dropped into Mr. Hamilton’s office. My feet touched the carpet without a sound.


    The room smelled like leather and expensive scotch. A big oak desk dominated the space, littered with papers and what looked like an old-school ledger book. Perfect. That’s where Chad’s dad kept his stash. Or so I’d overheard when Chad was bragging to his buddies during gym class. Why was he bragging about such things? I have no clue.


    I moved toward the desk, my pulse pounding like a drum in my ears. This was it. No turning back now.


    Oh.


    Porn mags. Seriously?


    I stared at the glossy covers tucked neatly into the secret compartment under the desk. So this was that kind of stash. Disappointment punched me square in the gut, but I wasn’t about to throw in the towel just yet. The Hamiltons were upper-crust rich, like, mansion-in-the-burbs, vacation-home-in-the-seaside-resort rich. There had to be more here.


    I wasn’t doing this for kicks. I had needs, real ones. Dropping out of high school wasn’t a choice I’d made lightly, but options were thin, and my stomach didn’t care about dignity.


    Under the dim light filtering through the blinds, I started my search. Slow. Careful. Hands hovered over objects, but I barely touched anything unless I had to. If something moved, I made damn sure it went back exactly as I found it. No way was I leaving this place looking like I’d rifled through it.


    "Huh?"


    There was this weird angel statue on a shelf near the corner. It looked heavy and old. Too weird to bother with.


    Next to it was a gun, displayed proudly in a case lined with velvet. Antique? Maybe. It looked cool, but I had no idea what I’d even do with it. Pawn it? Keep it? No way was I walking out of here with a firearm in my bag.


    The painting on the far wall caught my eye. Big, bold strokes of color in a gold frame. Probably worth a fortune. Too bad it was bigger than me. Why did I even bother bringing a duffel bag if I wasn’t going to haul something like that?


    I shook my head. Focus, Nick. Focus.


    Nothing beats cold, hard cash. That’s what I needed. Small, untraceable, and exactly what a broke dropout like me could use to scrape by.


    I stepped back to the desk, crouching down to check the lower drawers. My heart pounded like it wanted out of my chest. Every creak of the house made me freeze. A second drawer came up empty except for some receipts and a pair of reading glasses. But the third?


    Jackpot. A wad of crisp bills stared up at me.


    I reached for the cash, my fingers trembling. This was it, the start of something new. Something better.


    And that’s when the lights flicked on.


    Panic hit me like a brick.


    The moment the lights came on, I didn’t think. I just reacted. I was standing adjacent to the table, the wooden side facing me. I''d have to run around to hide just under it, but no need to detour. My power kicked in, and I phased straight down, slipping under the table like a ghost. My heart was hammering so loud I swore they’d hear it. No one saw me, right? Right?


    I stuffed the wad of cash into my oversized duffel bag as quietly as I could, willing my shaky hands to steady. Then I froze.


    Smacking sounds. Lips. Oh, no.


    The table creaked as someone sat down on it, hard. I clenched my teeth to keep from making a sound. More smacking, wet and deliberate. My stomach churned as I heard voices, low, breathy, and disturbingly close.


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    “I’ve missed you all day,” someone murmured.


    “You’re so bad,” came the reply, dripping with flirtation.


    Oh, no. No, no, no.


    I gulped, swallowing hard to keep the bile—and the growing panic—down. I was supposed to be afraid for my life, right? That would’ve been the logical response. But logic took a back seat as I sat there under the desk, listening to what was very clearly Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton having… a moment.


    “Come here,” Mr. Hamilton growled.


    I cringed. The sound of fabric shifting reached my ears, followed by a soft thump as lingerie or something silky landed on my head the moment I tried to peek. I bit back a curse, hastily brushing it off before they could notice, while I retreated to my cramped nest.


    The table above me shifted again as Mrs. Hamilton giggled. More clothes hit the floor, one after the other. My entire face burned hotter than the furnace I’d been sweating in earlier.


    I knew I should be terrified of getting caught, but it was hard to focus on that with this happening over my head. Curiosity got the better of me. Again, I peeked out from under the table.


    Big mistake.


    There they were. Mr. Hamilton, shirtless, unbuttoning his slacks. Mrs. Hamilton, practically glowing, now in nothing but heels.


    I hastily retreated back under the table, only to bang my head against the underside of the desk. The dull thunkechoed in the quiet room.


    I froze, waiting for the inevitable shouts of, Who’s there?But no.


    They didn’t notice.


    Too busy. Too into each other. Thank God or whatever deity looked out for dumb teenage thieves stuck in mortifying situations.


    I pressed my back against the inside of the desk, clutching the duffel bag like it was a lifeline. There was no way in hell I was going anywhere until this nightmare ended. I couldn''t risk making a run for it.


    Mrs. Hamilton moaned softly, and my soul crawled into the darkest corner of my body.


    More smacking. More moaning. And then—God help me—they started dirty talking.


    “Mmm, you always know how to make me feel so special,”said Mrs. Hamilton.


    “Special? That doesn’t even begin to describe how you look right now,”countered Mr.Hamilton. “Oh, you charmer. You’re all mine tonight, you know that?”


    “Every second, every inch—yours.”


    “Then stop talking and show me how much.”


    “Gladly. But don’t blame me if I can’t keep my hands off you after this.”


    I didn’t want to hear it, but the sound filled the room like it was mocking me.


    The table above me began to shake. Slowly at first, but with an ominous rhythm that spelled doom for my sanity.


    Nope. I’m notstaying for this.


    I needed to escape this hell, damn it. The only option was down. This was the second floor, so maybe, just maybe, I could phase through the floor and drop to the first. I clenched my teeth, focused, and let my power flicker to life.


    Using my ability was like turning on a switch, only instead of light, it felt like my entire body melted into shadow. A strange, weightless sensation spread through me as I extended the effect to my clothes and duffel bag. I slipped down through the floor like water through a sieve, leaving the Hamiltons’ increasingly enthusiastic display behind me.


    The drop was a bit farther than I anticipated. Phasing didn’t completely negate gravity—it just made me intangible. I still fell, weightless but fast, into the dark void between floors. My breath caught in my chest—not that I could breathe in this state. Another weird quirk of my power: no air while I was intangible.


    The floor of the first story loomed below, but as soon as I reached it, I canceled my power.


    Gravity caught me againas it registered my weight, and I softly bounced up before landing on my feet with a quiet thud. No broken bones, no faceplants. "Man... I thought I''m done for. I need more practice."


    I exhaled and looked around. The kitchen.


    Their oversized fridge towered before me like a beacon of hope. What was next on the heist agenda? Food, of course. I wasn’t leaving without something to eat.


    I swung open the fridge door, and it was like I’d hit the jackpot.


    Leftovers from the holidays filled the shelves: turkey, mashed potatoes, and a whole stuffed turkey that looked untouched. I grabbed the turkey first, tossing it into the duffel bag. A bowl of grapes caught my eye. I grabbed a handful, savoring the burst of sweetness as I taste-tested them before leaving the bowl behind. Caviar? Fancy. I held the tiny tin up to the light. What even wascaviar? Rich people food, obviously, but it wasn’t like I had the time—or taste buds—to figure it out. Into the bag it went.


    My stomach growled in approval. This wasn’t the grand heist I’d imagined, but damn if it wasn’t practical. What else could I take? The night wasn’t over yet.


    While there was a weight limit when using my powers, that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to fill up my duffel bag to the brim. Which, of course, was exactly what I did. Caviar, leftovers, a whole turkey—it was like the world''s lamest grocery haul.


    So much trouble for stealing food. Some criminal I was.


    The good news? I now had a secured escape route. Phasing through the floor earlier had given me the perfect way out, and I wasn’t about to overstay my welcome... or risk running into the Hamiltons mid-round two.


    I made my way to the kitchen window and slid it open. The cool night air spilled in, refreshing against the heat of my embarrassment. I hefted the overstuffed duffel bag, dragged it onto the windowsill, and climbed out after it.


    No alarms. No lights. So far, so good.


    But I wasn’t taking any chances. I bolted for the wall that surrounded their property, my heart racing with every step. The bag bounced against my back as I ran, heavier than I’d expected but not unbearable. My mind conjured images of angry dogs catching my scent and tearing through the yard, but I pushed the thought aside.


    Since I gained my powers, I didn’t sweat anymore—not the way I used to, anyway. No perspiration meant no trail for dogs to follow. Didn’t stop me from feeling cold or hot, though, and the chill of the January night was biting through my hoodie.


    Thankfully, no dogs came.


    When I reached the wall, I didn’t hesitate. I slung the bag over my shoulder and started climbing like a maniac. My fingers found hold after hold as I scrambled upward, ignoring the strain in my arms and the awkward weight of the duffel bag.


    At the top, I took a deep breath and dropped to the other side with as much grace as I could muster.


    Which, to be fair, wasn’t much.


    I phased through the ground just enough to soften the impact, the too-heavy bag acting as an anchor to slow my descent. Then, with a practiced push, I propelled myself back up and onto solid ground with ease.


    My feet landed softly on the grass. The bag hit the ground beside me with a quiet thump.I dusted myself off, adjusted the strap, and started walking, the cool night air filling my lungs.


    One escape, successfully pulled off. One heist, questionably executed.


    I glanced at the bag and couldn’t help but smirk. Not bad for my first night as a “villain.”


    The great Nicholas Caldwell: food thief extraordinaire.