CHAPTER ONE: THE THIEVES
AUTHOR NOTE - This is not a novel, but the heartbeat of a my short film... written in the language of a screenplay Still, I hope the silence between the lines speaks to you If it does, then the story has already found its place.
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CHAPTER ONE: THE THIEVES
The house was not a home. It was a fortress of glass and shadow, set back from the street behind a tall iron gate. A statement, not an invitation.
A black sedan rolled past once, twice, then pulled into the shade of an overhanging oak, engine cutting to silence.
Inside, two men waited.
Biscuit muttered, fingers tapping the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the iron gate. "Like we're crossing something you can't uncross."
Nagamu didn’t turn. His eyes were fixed on the mansion.
He’d been inside before—as a temporary worker fixing the garden lights. He knew the layout, the alarm model, the schedule.
“Single mother. High finance. Son’s fifteen,” Nagamu recited. “They left yesterday for a school trip. Won’t be back until tomorrow. House is empty. Safe’s in the upstairs study.”
“Does it ever feel… wrong to you?” Biscuit’s voice was low, almost lost in the hum of the idling engine. “The planning, the watching. The actual… taking. Is it right?”
In the passenger seat, Nagamu didn’t turn. His eyes were closed, head tilted back against the rest as if listening to far-off music. A faint smile touched his lips. “Right?” he echoed, the word a soft exhale. “Nothing is right in this world, Biscuit. Only what you decide is necessary. If it feels necessary to us, then it becomes right. That’s the only law that matters.”
The gate’s electronic lock was disabled with a clipped wire. The back door’s deadbolt took Biscuit ninety seconds.
They slipped inside.
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The air was cool, still, smelling of lemongrass and money. Marble floors gleamed under the pale afternoon light filtering through tall windows.
Biscuit headed upstairs toward the study.
Nagamu lingered in the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of cold apple juice from a crystal pitcher. He moved to the living room, sank into a sofa that cost more than his car, and turned on the TV—muted.
A strange quiet settled over the house. Not peaceful. Waiting.
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Upstairs, Biscuit felt it first.
The study door was unlocked. The safe was right where Nagamu said—behind a framed print of a water lily. But as he knelt, tools laid out, the skin on his neck prickled.
Click.
He froze. That wasn’t the lock.
It came from the hallway.
He stood, heart thudding. “Nagamu?” he whispered.
No answer.
He stepped out into the corridor. Dark. Empty.
Then—a soft creak, like weight on a floorboard. Coming from the far end, near a closed bedroom door.
The boy’s room.
Biscuit’s breath hitched. Nagamu said he was gone. He said.
“Hello?” His voice was thin, swallowed by the house.
Silence.
He took a step backward toward the stairs. Another creak—closer this time.
His eyes darted. A shadow shifted under the bedroom door.
He wasn’t alone.
He turned to run, to call for Nagamu—
Something moved fast in the dark behind him.
Not a shout. Not a word. Just the swift, whistling sound of air being parted.
Then a crushing impact—thud—at the base of his skull.
The world flashed white, then red, then black.
Biscuit crumpled, tools scattering from his hands. On the marble, a small, sticky pool began to form.
Standing over him, holding a long-handled hammer lightly in one hand, was a boy. About fifteen.
Mike didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. He just looked down with a calm, curious expression—like examining an insect.
Then he wiped the hammer’s head on his pant leg, picked up Biscuit’s ankle, and began dragging him quietly back into the study.
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Downstairs, Nagamu checked his watch. Too long.
“Biscuit?” he called out, voice echoing.
Nothing.
He stood, muted TV still flickering. The house felt different now. Colder. The shadows longer.
He climbed the stairs, each step deliberate. “Biscuit, if you’re playing games—”
The study door was ajar.
Inside, Biscuit lay on his side on the Persian rug. Unmoving. Blood in his hair.
And standing beside him, hammer resting gently against his leg, was a boy with calm, empty eyes.
Nagamu stared at the body, his mind refusing to assemble the image into meaning.
For the first time, necessity had no shape.
"Biscuit...?"
A small voice answered from behind him.
"You're asking the wrong question."
Nagamu turned.
The boy stood in the doorway, his calm, empty eyes fixed on Nagamu with polite curiosity.
"You should be asking how long I've been watching you."He tilted his head slightly.
“You said you were artists. Here to… exhibit.” A faint, chilling smile touched his lips. “So did I.”
He raised the hammer-not in threat, but like an offering.
“Today just got special.”
