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Princess Clara adjusted the sleek black catsuit, its obsidian fabric shimmering under a layer of strategically placed rhinestones—functional elegance for scaling walls and vanishing into shadows. Fingerless gloves lined with micro-tools clung to her hands, while a masquerade mask adorned with fractured glass patterns obscured her face. Not a strand of her platinum braid escaped the high collar. She strapped a compact grappling hook to her thigh and slipped a diamond-tipped laser into her boot—courtesy of a "borrowed" blueprint from the royal engineers. The bank’s vault awaited, and Clara intended to carve her way in with style. A midnight-blue limousine idled outside the palace’s service gate, its driver paid handsomely to believe this was a covert charity gala. Clara slid inside, rehearsing the route: third bridge across the river, left into the theater district, then a hidden alley two blocks south of First National. The bank’s midnight security shift change began in 23 minutes—a six-second window where the vault’s biometric scan cycled. Officer Emma’s patrol schedule, memorized from weeks of "casual" chats at the precinct’s charity auctions, put her six blocks away at this hour. Perfect. Clara burst through the bank’s skylight on a silk rope, shards of glass cascading like crystal rain. Guards froze as she landed in a crouch, lobbing a smoke pellet that erupted into a cloud of rose-scented glitter. "Lovely evening for a redistribution, gentlemen," she purred, slicing the vault door with a hum of her laser. Diamonds met velvet pouches in seconds. A flick of her wrist sent a decoy bag soaring into the vents as she slipped out the service elevator, the real haul secured beneath her cape. Sirens wailed. Emma’s motorcycle screeched around the corner, spotlight blazing. Clara grinned, triggering electromagnets in her gloves to scale a drainage pipe. The chase spiraled across rooftops, Emma’s shouts blending with the wind. At the river’s edge, Clara dove, her suit inflating into a submersible glider. She resurfaced downstream, where a hot-air balloon emblazoned with the welfare association’s logo hovered. "Donations received," she whispered, tossing the diamonds into the basket before vanishing into the night. Emma’s flashlight found only a thank-you note: *For the children. Catch me next time.*
