Chapter Text
POV Theo
Theo laughs when someone suggests it.
“Yeah, right,” someone says from the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, glass dangling loosely from his fingers. “Like you’d actually do something interesting for once.”
There’s a beat of silence. Not awkward—expectant.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” another voice asks.
“It means we’re bored,” he replies easily. “Same parties. Same people. Same stories. Let’s do something different.”
Theo leans against the kitchen counter, fingers resting on cold marble. The house is too quiet for how many people are in it—too clean, too controlled. He’s used to rooms like this, where nothing ever really happens unless someone decides it should.
“Different how?” someone asks.
A grin. “I don’t know. Something stupid.”
“Stupid like… illegal?”
Laughter breaks out.
Theo should shut it down. He’s good at that—stepping in before things get out of hand, smoothing edges, keeping everything manageable. It’s a habit he learned early, growing up in a house where problems were handled quietly and mistakes disappeared before they became real.
Instead, he says, “Do you have an actual idea, or are you just talking?”
All eyes turn to him.
That’s the thing about Theo. People listen when he speaks, even when he doesn’t mean to lead.
“There’s a corner store on the South Side,” someone says, already pulling up a map on his phone. “Always open. Barely anyone inside. Five minutes, tops.”
“South Side?” someone scoffs. “You serious?”
“It’s not like we’re robbing a bank.”
Theo exhales slowly. “And how exactly do you plan on doing this?”
Someone disappears down the hallway and comes back holding a gun.
Plastic. Black. Lightweight.
“Relax,” he says immediately. “It’s fake.”
Theo takes it when it’s handed to him, turning it over once in his palm. It looks real enough. Close enough.
“No one’s getting hurt,” someone adds. “It’s just to scare them.”
“Who?” Theo asks.
A shrug. “Whoever’s working.”
Theo hands the gun back. “If anyone panics, we walk. If anything feels off, we’re done.”
A laugh. “Look at you, already organizing.”
Theo doesn’t smile.
They leave not long after. The front door clicks shut behind them, quiet as always. Theo knows his parents won’t notice he’s gone. They never do. Freedom, he’s learned, looks a lot like absence when you have enough money to disappear without consequence.
The drive south is loud—music turned up, windows cracked, jokes flying freely. Theo watches the city change through the glass. The streets narrow. Buildings press closer together. Streetlights flicker instead of glow.
“You good?” the driver asks, glancing over.
Theo nods. “Yeah.”
They park a few blocks away.
“Just in case,” someone mutters.
The gun ends up in Theo’s hands again.
“You’re steady,” one of them says. “You do it.”
Theo doesn’t argue. He steps out of the car, pulling his jacket tighter as cold air cuts through the street. The smell here is different—oil, damp concrete, something metallic underneath.
The convenience store is too bright against the dark street. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead as Theo pushes the door open.
The bell rings.
The guy behind the counter looks up.
He doesn’t flinch.
That’s the first thing Theo notices—not the red hair, not the sharpness of his eyes, but the stillness. His shoulders don’t tense. His hands don’t move right away. He takes a second to look at all of them, slow and deliberate, like he’s counting.
Theo lifts the gun.
“Open the register.”
The words land cleanly.
The boy’s eyes flick to the weapon, then back to Theo’s face. His jaw tightens, barely noticeable, before he exhales through his nose.
“Okay,” he says.
Not rushed. Not shaking.
He turns toward the register, movements careful, controlled. The lights hum. A car passes outside, tires hissing against wet pavement.
“You don’t have to point that at me,” the boy says, voice even, eyes fixed on the screen.
Theo doesn’t respond.
The drawer slides open with a sharp sound.
Bills sit inside, neat and waiting.
For a moment, the boy hesitates.
Then his hand comes down hard on the counter.
“Take it,” he says, louder now. Firmer. “Just take it and go.”
Someone behind Theo shifts. A breath brushes his shoulder.
The boy gathers the money himself, pushing it toward the edge of the counter. His knuckles whiten as he does it.
Theo notices the way his eyes never leave the gun.
Not fearful. Watchful.
The bell rings again as someone moves toward the door.
“Hurry up,” a voice mutters.
The boy finally looks past Theo, toward the others.
“Is that it?” he asks.
Theo steps back.
The boy doesn’t move until they do.
Only when the door opens does he reach under the counter, pressing something out of sight. A button. A switch. Something practiced.
The bell rings again.
The door slams shut.
And for the first time since they walked in, the boy behind the counter moves fast.