"Moonshadow? Can you hear me?" Ashes' voice sounded softly from the earbud.
Isaac let out an annoyed breath. By now even Ashe was using the nickname the press had given him.
He tapped the small earbud once. "Loud and clear, Ember."
"Perfect."
"Ink Phantom can begin his show," Isaac said.
He stood in front of the painting he had only finished the day before — the scene in which the two men had fought a battle to the death and only one had emerged victorious.
"Understood."
"Is it starting?" Constantin asked beside him.
Isaac gave a brief nod and cast a checking glance at his watch. "Make sure no one comes in here for the next hour."
"No one will enter the gallery," his boss's secretary promised without hesitation.
Isaac pulled on the gloves, smoothed the fingers, and checked the seams. Then he retied his boots, tighter this time. He pulled the hood of his jacket low over his face. Tools disappeared into the designated pocket, the small combat knife into the shaft of his boot. He slipped his phone into the other trouser pocket. Finally, he grabbed the mask that covered his entire face.
He had warmed up beforehand, wore no perfume, and had washed at home with odorless soap. No one would be able to identify him by his scent.
Isaac briefly closed his eyes and regulated his breathing.
He was a ghost. He would enter the museum as a ghost, steal The Geisha of the Evening Moon, and vanish just as silently again. Even the cop wouldn't catch him.
Noah had surely already begun his show, so he had to get moving as fast as possible.
"Good luck, Mr. Walker," Constantin said politely. "The boss expects you as usual after your mission."
"Thanks."
Constantin walked away in quiet steps. Only when the door clicked shut behind him and Isaac was certain he was alone did he turn to the painting.
He put on the mask.
He tapped the earbud again.
"Ember?" he asked, more subdued now. "Status report."
A brief crackle followed.
"It looks good. The distraction is working as usual," Ashe said calmly. "The path is clear, and there are fewer cops on site than last time."
"Will anyone be near me?"
"No. You can start. I'll explain the rest on the way."
"Good."
Isaac cut off the voice input from his end so he could only hear Ashe, and turned to his actual task.
He stepped up to the painting and placed his hand on the canvas. His hand tingled; as always, his veins burned as if liquid fire were flowing through them. He had done it so many times he no longer even felt pain — even if it still felt unpleasant.
Isaac followed the sensation and the way the magic filled him. He searched for the tether that would guide him until he finally found it. He grasped it in his mind and opened his eyes.
"Link the path and release the seal."
The burning in his arm vanished instantly. All that remained was the echo of pain and the pulsing energy within him that allowed him alone to use his freshly opened portal. He tapped his earbud again.
"I'm ready," Isaac said.
"I'm disabling surveillance in 3...2...1... now. Okay, the system is under my control," Ashe replied. "No one in sight, you can go in."
"Understood."
He took one more breath and finally stepped into the painting. His foot touched the ground and once he had passed through completely, he was no longer in the boss's gallery but at his destination: the Solaris Museum.
Walking through his self-created portal still felt strange. It was like passing through a very thin mucous membrane that burst like a soap bubble the moment he was fully through — without getting wet or leaving any residue on his body.
There were days he wondered whether he could shape the structure of the portal differently. However, no material had yet occurred to him that he would prefer to walk through. So he left it as it was. After all, it wasn't nearly as unpleasant as creating the path, so he accepted the nature of his portal as it was.
Isaac let his gaze sweep through the dark room and found everything exactly as it had been a day earlier, when he had delivered the painting. The painting he had stepped through was the perfect counterpart of the one he had entered.
He knew the structure and layout of the museum inside out. Isaac listened into the corridor, trying to determine whether anyone was nearby. However, nothing could be heard, which was a good sign.
"Ember?" he asked quietly.
"The air is still clear. You can get started — I'm initiating the distraction program."
Isaac began to move.
"Only report if it's necessary."
"Understood."
With that, he could focus entirely on the heist.
He kept to the walls and felt his way forward carefully. His phone was on silent, and the earbud was just loud enough for him to understand everything Ashe said, while no one else would notice he was speaking to someone. Aside from that, it allowed him to concentrate better on his surroundings.
He knew this museum well — this was his sixth raid in these halls, and he had attended so many exhibitions that he could probably navigate the corridors safely even blindfolded.
Isaac loved art in all its forms.
He always tried to carry out his heists as unseen as possible, and for a long time he had succeeded, especially in the period before Noah had gotten involved. He had Ashe at his side, who always ensured a total failure of the technology. Sometimes she caused a complete blackout in the residential block around the museum, and sometimes she simply overwrote the camera recordings with old footage.
No one had ever seen him, and no one had ever figured out how he got in or transported his stolen goods back out. It was the greatest ace up his sleeve, and he hoped it would remain that way for a long time.
"Two cops in the next gallery to your right," came the voice from the earbud.
Isaac did not reply. Ashe could see exactly where he was going and how he was moving through all the cameras. He slowed his steps and stopped at the entrance to the next gallery. He heard neither footsteps nor conversation.
"One cop is patrolling the corridor — he'll see you in half a minute. You should hide."
Isaac looked around the corridor and spotted a statue to his left. With very quiet steps he slipped over, keeping an eye on the gallery entrance. But no one looked into the corridor. The police communication would keep working only until he had taken the painting.
He barely managed to hide as the mentioned cops walked quietly down the corridor.
From outside he heard loud cheering and an ear-splitting roar.
Isaac's heart still beat at its usual rhythm. The situation didn't rattle him. Ashe had everything under control and always warned him in time. He could give in to the stress once he had secured the painting.
"Keep going."
He slipped out of the shadows.
"How many are there, Ember?" he asked quietly while cautiously peering into the gallery, only moving once no one was looking his way.
"Currently forty cops outside, and six inside the museum."
That was significantly fewer than last time.
He continued until he reached the gallery containing the painting.
So three cops left.
Carefully Isaac peeked inside. However, only two cops were there. So where was the last one? Were two of them patrolling? He hadn't seen Benedict anywhere either — though it wasn't a bad thing that he wasn't there yet. Isaac continued forward. Avoiding these two would be easy.
The painting still hung in the same place as before. It wasn't particularly secured, and he could simply carry it out — the canvas was A3 size.
He remained alert. Step by step he advanced slowly. He couldn't spot anything unusual, which in itself was unusual. Since the last heist he had certain expectations, and finding absolutely nothing was, in a way, disappointing.
Wait… disappointing? This was a job. He should be glad it was this easy, and yet he couldn't shake the bad feeling in his stomach that kept growing stronger.
Something was off.
Where was Benedict? Why weren't the two cops looking around? Why hadn't the patrol from earlier returned yet? And why were two of the cops in another gallery if there were really only six of them here?
Too many questions suddenly came to mind.
Don't think about it, he told himself. You steal the object as always and react to whatever comes — that's how you've survived so far.
He couldn't speak with Ashe anyway without giving himself away.
"All clear," came softly from his earbud.
With that, Ashe gave him the go-ahead. He didn't strictly need it — he knew the plan by heart and could operate without communication — but it was reassuring to know they weren't already surrounding him and aware of his presence.
Otherwise Ashe would have raised the alarm long ago.
He froze mid-movement. About two meters in front of the painting, low tripwires had been installed. He stepped over them without difficulty, not touching a single wire.
When he reached the picture, he quickly checked it for security devices or possible traps. He could see nothing. He swiftly verified whether it was still the same painting he had seen before the announcement. It didn't appear to have been replaced.
Carefully Isaac extended his fingers toward the painting — but before he could even touch the frame, a hissing sound rang out. Instinctively he raised his arms to shield his face and turned away from the painting so he wouldn't get hit by whatever was being sprayed, nor stumble over the damn tripwires.
So that was their plan… damn cops, he thought irritably.
The burst of spray echoed far too loudly in the silence. Moments later his eyes burned, his nose ran, and the irritation made him cough. They had used tear gas to catch him. Benedict, that bastard, had to be behind it.
He tried to stay quiet, but the damage was done — even if the mask had probably blocked most of it. Never before had he been so grateful for the mask.
"There he is!" he heard a cop shout before everything dissolved into chaos.
An alarm suddenly blared; he heard Ashe's interference noise and quickly tore the painting from the wall. He had to get out as fast as possible. He coughed, and no matter how much he coughed the irritation wouldn't fade. Every breath burned.
Somehow he managed to avoid the tripwires without falling, which almost bordered on a miracle. But no sooner had he cleared them than the two cops who had been staring at the wall stood before him.
His vision was blurred by tears and it was difficult to keep his eyes open.
This was bad.
At least he was still in good physical condition. His hearing worked too — he just had to concentrate. Somehow he would get out of here.
However, aside from the interference noise, nothing could be heard. He caught heavy footsteps but could barely tell from which direction they came. Suddenly one of the cops grabbed his jacket; Isaac tore himself free at once, spun halfway around, and kicked the cop directly in the face — at least he hoped it was the face.
"Moonshadow, do you need help?" Ashe's distorted voice came through the static.
Isaac coughed and tapped the earbud. "No."
If he called for help now, nearly forty cops outside would follow Noah into the museum. Noctis was still injured, and he hadn't seen him for two days. There was no help coming for him. He had to manage alone. Even if Noctis were ready, he wouldn't ask for his help — the cut hadn't been nearly as small as he had claimed.
Isaac didn't want anything to happen to him.
The cop hit the floor with an audible crash. Isaac quickly looked around. The second cop stood a short distance away, aiming his pistol at his chest — or his legs, he couldn't quite tell. But even with blurred vision he could at least see where the bastard was standing. He carefully set the painting aside, grabbed his combat knife, and in one fluid motion hurled it at the cop. At the same instant a shot rang out. Isaac dodged and braced for the bursting pain — but it never came.
That had been close.
The cop dropped to his knees. Isaac had struck his thigh.
He rushed over and delivered a solid uppercut. The cop fell back. Quickly Isaac retrieved his knife and took the cop's pistol. He tucked the painting under his arm and ran.
He didn't care whether the cop was unconscious — as long as it took him even a minute to get back up, that was enough. He reached the corridor.
"Stop!" another cop shouted behind him.
The alarm nearly drowned it out. Probably the one who had been patrolling earlier. He heard one shot, then a second. Isaac zigzagged, trying to move unpredictably. Suddenly a cop stood in front of him; he slammed into him at full speed and knocked him over. Isaac himself stumbled but managed to regain his balance after a few steps.
Through everything he did, he kept carrying the painting carefully. He had trained for situations like this. He only hoped the bullets wouldn't hit it.
When the next cop blocked his path and aimed his weapon at him, Isaac dropped low and slid into his legs. He hit the cop's leg, and even through the noise he heard a distinctly unhealthy crack.
He pushed the painting aside while sliding. It would certainly pick up a few scratches.
Isaac got back up. He raised the pistol and shot the cop in the shoulder. He shot the one still running at him in the leg — the coughing and streaming eyes made aiming incredibly difficult. He hoped he had hit what he intended. The cops weren't allowed to die.
Besides, his last gunshot wound had healed, but the muscle still gave him trouble.
The cop went down, while the one he had knocked over earlier got back up and came toward Isaac. He was fast and looked furious; Isaac could barely aim. So he quickly engaged the safety and hurled the pistol at the cop's head as hard as he could.
He had no time to check everything, but since no one was standing and aiming at him anymore, he chose to run. He had taken down five of the six cops. Isaac didn't know how badly he had injured them, and it irritated him immensely.
Where the hell was Benedict?
Isaac bent down for the painting and just caught sight of someone trying to kick him in the stomach.
Instinctively he tore his arms up to shield his torso, tensed his abdominal muscles — and the kick still hurt. He was thrown backward and slammed his back against the wall. He had no time to recover from the attack; he immediately straightened up again.
Standing before him was none other than Benedict. The only cop who had ever left him with a lasting wound. The man who had occupied him longer than any other opponent. The one with whom Isaac had spent some of his most humiliating hours. Benedict positioned himself directly in front of the painting lying on the floor, blocking Isaac's direct path.
"Finally we meet again, you damned ghost!"
His gaze was sharp, almost lurking — like a dog just before the attack.
"Moonshadow? Should I send Ink Phantom?" Ashe now asked more urgently.
Isaac tapped the earbud. "No," he growled, coughing.
"Two of the cops are getting back up. You have to get out. Now. Ink Phantom can't hold the position outside much longer."
"…Okay," Isaac managed.
His gaze remained fixed on Benedict.
"The tear gas got you pretty good, huh?" Benedict said with a thin grin — and immediately attacked.
Isaac dropped low and tried to trip him. But they stood too close to the wall; Benedict caught himself, used the momentum, and struck back at once.
Isaac could only vaguely make out how the cop moved. He didn't see the next punch that hit him directly in the face. He heard a crunch as Benedict's fist struck plastic. The mask had absorbed the blow. Still, he tasted blood. Isaac grabbed Benedict's shirt collar and yanked him toward himself. He drove his knee into his stomach with full force.
Benedict clutched his abdomen and doubled over.
"Get out!" Ashe shouted at him now.
Isaac wasted no more time.
Exhausted, he lunged toward the painting — but just as he bent down he received a heavy kick straight into his back. He fell directly onto a low bench and smashed his shin against the damned edge.
Trying to catch himself, he slammed his little finger frontally against the surface and got stuck in a cursed groove. Suddenly his finger stuck out at an odd angle and Isaac realized he had dislocated it.
He pressed his lips together, suppressing the scream, grabbed the finger, and yanked it back into position. Black spots danced before his eyes.
Isaac tried to pull himself back up immediately. But his leg didn't really hold him. He stumbled forward — and at that exact moment gunshots rang out again. Now that he and Benedict were no longer so close together, they apparently dared to shoot again.
He had far too much luck given the circumstances. He didn't seem to have been hit.
Isaac drew his knife and hurled it at Benedict. He had aimed for his shoulder but hit his upper arm instead. He struggled upright, ignored the pain, and jumped back over the bench toward the painting. He grabbed it and kept running. As he reached the entrance to the gallery where his exit awaited him, he heard shots again.
He hated the thought that the cops might destroy something artistically valuable.
"Stop, you damn thief!" Benedict shouted behind him.
Isaac hid behind a statue, breathing heavily. He was still coughing, especially now that he was completely out of breath. He carefully set the painting down and waited for Benedict to step a few paces into the gallery.
Isaac would have to take him out — he couldn't let anyone see his exit.
Benedict held the arm in which the knife glinted menacingly in the dim light. Isaac hauled himself up and limped as quietly as he could behind him. He could barely suppress the urge to cough and practically held his breath as he approached the cop. The officer looked around the seemingly empty gallery.
"Damn it!" he cursed angrily. "Come out, you bastard!"
At that moment Isaac had to cough. Originally he had intended to choke Benedict unconscious from behind. But Benedict heard the faint cough and spun around instantly.
Instead Isaac swung and landed an uppercut. Benedict was thrown backward; Isaac struck him in the stomach, then tore the knife from Benedict's arm and followed up with another kick.
Benedict lay on the ground coughing, curled up and clutching his side.
Isaac could barely stay on his feet himself. He delivered one more, not quite as hard, kick to Benedict's chin and gritted his teeth as pain flared in his shin.
Benedict collapsed.
Isaac limped to the painting, grabbed it, and ran as fast as he could toward his exit.
"You need to get out now — the other two are almost there!"
At that exact moment he jumped through the painting.