Rule number two of being a successful thief: people will forgive almost anything if you make them laugh.

Rule number one: don’t get caught.

Which is why, as I dangled upside down from a museum skylight, watching my prize get whisked away by a security guard, I was re-evaluating some of my life choices.

“Hey,” I called down. “I think you took something of mine.”

The guard jumped about a foot in the air. I mean, fair. If a disembodied voice spoke to me while I was working, I’d be concerned too.

He spun around, clutching the small velvet pouch I had definitely stolen first. His flashlight beam shot up, catching me in its glare.

“What the—? How did you even—?”

“Long story. But listen, I just need that back real quick.” I swayed slightly, still dangling from my harness. “It’s a whole ‘finders keepers’ situation. And I did find it first.”

He recovered fast. “You’re under arrest.”

Ah. So we were skipping the banter and going straight to threats. Rude.

“Technically,” I said, “you’d have to catch me first, and I’d like to remind you that I’m—” I gestured vaguely at my current situation. “—very high up and extremely difficult to reach.”

His hand went to his radio. Not ideal.

Time for plan B.

With a quick twist, I freed myself from my harness and dropped. Just as the guard gasped, I caught the railing of the second-floor balcony and flipped myself over it, landing gracefully on my feet.

Okay, mostly gracefully.

The guard fumbled with his radio, but I was already moving. I sprinted down the hallway, my mind racing. I’d spent weeks planning this heist. Every security feed, every guard shift, every possible escape route.

None of those plans involved a random security guard stealing my stolen goods.

“You can’t outrun me!” he shouted.

I rounded a corner, vaulted over a display case, and slid under a velvet rope. “Pretty sure I can!”

The exit was just ahead. I could almost taste freedom.

But then—sirens.

Oh, come on.

The whole building lit up in flashing red and blue. Doors slammed shut. A very loud voice over the intercom informed me I was very much arrested.

I skidded to a stop.

Alright. This was salvageable. Maybe.

I turned, hands up in surrender. The guard was already panting when he caught up. “Told you,” he wheezed.

“Yeah, yeah.” I nodded toward the pouch still clutched in his hand. “Mind if I just take that before I go to jail? Sentimental value.”

He glared at me. “Not a chance.”

“Fair enough,” I sighed. “But I really wouldn’t open it.”

His fingers tightened around the pouch. “Why not?”

I smiled. “Because the guy who hired me to steal it in the first place? He really doesn’t like sharing.”

The guard hesitated.

And that’s when the real thief—my partner—cut the power.

The museum plunged into darkness.

I lunged. The pouch was out of his hands before he even had time to curse.

Then I was running again—through a hidden maintenance door, up an emergency stairwell, out onto the roof where my escape route was waiting.

By the time the power flickered back on, I was already gone.

And as for the guard? Well, let’s just say he learned a valuable life lesson.

Rule number three: never trust a thief.