The private art gallery is cold, dark, and waiting. I’ve always felt that my marks call to me—like I’m rescuing them. In a way, I am.

Some pieces were stolen long before I ever touched them, passed through greedy hands like dirty money. I simply... correct the mistake. Put them where they belong. Other times, certain people own the art but don’t deserve it. I sell it through a middleman. They make a killing; I get enough to keep moving.

And I never take requests. I follow instinct. The art speaks—or the owner ticks me off.

I slip along the gallery wall until I find it: a contemporary piece, more modern than I usually take, but bold and underappreciated. It belongs here, but not with him. The gallery owner made the mistake of disrespecting someone I admire. Let’s just say I’m repaying the favor by removing his prized possession.

I roll the canvas, slide it into the pouch on my back, and pull out a single feather. I leave it in the empty case.

Six years ago, I started leaving feathers. My father—gentle, patient, kind—was obsessed with birds. He was a gallery tech at a private museum and taught me the names of every bird I could draw. His favorite was a little finch named Gerald. When Dad died, I left a finch feather at my first job. I never stopped.

He wouldn’t have approved of this life. He believed in rules. I believe in purpose.

The security team’s chatter echoes down the hall. Right on schedule. I fade into the shadows.

“Did you hear about the heist off Eighth?” one guard says, scrolling through his phone. “People say the guy’s polite. Even says thank you while robbing you blind.”

They pass me without even noticing the switch.

A week later, I’m at an underground gallery auction. One of the pieces shouldn’t be for sale. It was stolen years ago. Tomorrow, I’ll return it to its rightful owner.

I blend into the shadows until I hear a laugh.

“Paint smugglers aren’t real thieves.”

The voice belongs to a tall handsome man in dark glasses, flashing a grin. He claps another guy on the back—and lifts his wallet in the same breath. Sleight of hand. Effortless.

Men like him always think they’re the smartest in the room. They’re addicted to their own legend. I turn away — but not before I catch his name:

The Fox.

Bank robber. Jewel thief. Con artist. Loud, reckless, and surprisingly famous in the underground.

He should learn discretion. He’s practically asking to be caught. I beat him to the ruby necklace he’s targeting before I finish my job. Just because I can.

When I flash him a grin across the auction floor, he blinks in disbelief. And then I vanish.

Two days later, I open a safety deposit box to retrieve a long-lost figurine: a small, fox-shaped statue carved from rare red jade. The job is clean—almost too easy. But tucked beside it is a photograph. A little boy in blue overalls and a red bear-print shirt, smiling next to an elderly woman.

To Ezra. A single fox can outsmart a dozen wolves. Love, Nana.

His eyes are unmistakable. Green, sharp, and mischievous. The same as the man I just outplayed.

I should return the statue. But I don’t. Not yet.

At another gallery—this time in daylight—I’m scouting. Routine check. That’s when I hear it.

“I thought I’d see you here, Finch.”

I freeze.

He’s better than I thought. No one’s ever put the pieces together before.

I turn slowly. “Hello, Kettle. If you’re going to play noble and call me the Pot. I know who you are too.” I grin. “They call you The Fox. For your... charm.”

He steps closer. “Flattered.”

He smells like cinnamon and something cozy. Like a sexy cookie. I hate how good he smells.

“You researched me.”

“Hardly. You’re loud. Try a fake name sometime.” I jab a finger into his chest, forcing space between us.

“That’s the difference between you and me,” he says. “Everyone knows me. I’m a legend. You? You hide behind feathers and false names. I bet you don’t even know who you are anymore.”

The words sting more than I want them to.

I frown. “You’re awfully cocky for someone who missed his last mark.”

“I’m not mad,” he says with a smirk. “That was clever. But there’s something I want from you.”

“I don’t do partnerships.”

“Pure red jade.”

I lift an eyebrow. “I hear that’s rare.”

“It’s been in my family for generations. My Nana gave it to me. It’s all I have of her.”

“Where’d she get it?”

He shrugs. “A man she met long ago. Doesn’t matter. I want it back.”

Three weeks later, he’s everywhere.

Leaning against walls. Winking at me. Commenting on my timing. He never gets too close. Never pushes. But he’s always there.

Another week goes by. Then, during a private party—one I spent months getting invited to—he’s already inside, laughing like he owns the place.

I drag him into an empty room. “How did you even get on the list?”

He closes the door. Steps closer. Too close.

My back hits the wall.

“I didn’t. I changed the list.”

He smells even better up close. Like trouble and home all at once.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stalling. You know what I want.”

“It’s the last thing your Nana gave you.”

He nods. “You knew.”

“I did,” I admit softly. “But it wasn’t hers to give, was it?”

“I don’t care.” His voice is quiet now. “I just want it back.”

I push him aside and go home, forgetting about my mark for now. I take a long hot bath and go to bed early. The next day, I’m up and at the same place hours earlier than I normally would be. Usually, I wait till night time. But I’m going to steal it as the sun comes up.

But this time, I leave the red jade fox figure in the case with a feather and a note before I change towns again and disappear.

‘A fox always finds his way back to what’s his.

A finch just makes sure he earns it.’

———-

I stare at the figure on my bookshelf in my bedroom. I can’t believe she gave it back. And now she’s gone.

The Finch is a woman I can’t get out of my head. From the moment I saw her at the underground auction, I knew she was something different. I could just feel this pull towards her.

It’s sad that this incredibly talented person is so alone. I can see it in her eyes. I wish I knew her real name.

I tried digging around for more information on her and found six aliases, but I can’t find the real her. I wonder if she knows. But I can tell that there is still some of the old her in there.

Whatever exuberant profits she makes off stolen paintings, she donates to struggling artists and random charities. She’s not as tough or bad as she tries to make herself seem. And she is beautiful, and smells like sunshine, and is so stubborn.

I think I am falling in love with her.

And now she is gone.

The note she left me is next to the fox on my shelf. She was right. I’m sure she’ll make me earn it, but I want her to be mine. The hunt is on.