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Hold your finger to jump another house.
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Every dawn our protagonist spent meticulously crafting the heist of a lifetime—a role reserved solely for himself, yet demanding an accomplice to execute his calculated scheme. His target? A bank entangled with the city’s underworld, its vaults swollen with laundered cash. The plan was straightforward: bleed the mafia dry on their own terms. A scathing newspaper exposé had handed him both motive and opportunity. Justice, after all, tasted sweeter when served with stolen millions. By nightfall, preparations were flawless. Shadows cloaked his movements as he breached the vault, silent and swift. The escape was clean, but danger lingered—patrols would soon swarm the streets. With cold precision, he stashed the haul atop a derelict rooftop, a temporary sanctuary. Now came the waiting game. Weeks would pass before retrieval. Until then, the city’s pulse thrummed with tension, unaware that its fate hinged on a thief’s patience—and the secrets buried under cracked concrete and rusted vents.
