Without raising suspicion, Julian returned to the sports field and joined the game again. His movements were casual, his smile quiet and steady. But inside, he buzzed with anticipation—waiting to see Lary’s reaction when he realized his video game was gone.

  After sports, the class returned, sweaty and laughing. During break, Lary strutted to his seat, ready to show off his device again. He unzipped his bag—then froze.

  Nothing.

  His smile faded as he rifled through the pockets. Maybe he had put it in a different zip? He opened every compartment, panic rising with each one.

  Still nothing.

  His chest tightened. His eyes burned, but he held it in. Breathing hard, he walked to the class monitor—his friend—and whispered that someone had stolen his video game during the sports period.

  The monitor acted fast. He ordered a check of everyone's bags and desks.

  Even Julian’s.

  But Julian's face was blank, calm. Inside, though, he felt a strange satisfaction. A thrill. Watching Lary search in vain made him feel… good. He didn’t know why exactly. But he liked it.

  He looked at Lary like he was a loser.

  Then came the twist.

  In the bag of Lary’s seatmate, they found the batteries.

  The boy was shocked. “That’s not mine! I was at sports too—how could I have stolen it? Someone’s framing me!”

  But Lary wasn’t listening. He was too desperate, too scared. His eyes were already welling up again.

  “If my dad finds out I lost it…” he mumbled, voice breaking. “He’s gonna kill me…”

  Before it could go further, the next period’s teacher entered and stopped the chaos. “Enough. Everyone to your seats,” she snapped, and the lesson began.

  Julian leaned back in his chair. As Lary wiped his face, silently crying behind his book, Julian felt something he hadn’t expected.

  Even if he had saved up and bought a better, more expensive video game—this one… felt more worthy.

  Because of the way he got it.

  Because of how it made him feel.

  The thrill of planning it. The risk. The moment of victory when no one suspected him.

  It wasn’t about having—it was about taking.

  ---

  A week passed.

  Lary gave up. No clues. No hope. Just silence and shame.

  And Julian? He waited—exactly as planned.

  After school, he slipped to the spot behind the shed. He checked for eyes, crouched down, and dug into the loose soil. A minute later, the plastic-wrapped video game was in his hands again.

  He smiled, dusting it off and tucking it into his bag.

  At home, with his parents still out working, Julian closed his bedroom door, locked it, and lifted a loose floor tile.

  Beneath it was a large plastic box.

  His secret vault.

  Inside were the things he’d stolen over the past few years. Some he used. Some he didn’t. Most just sat there—collecting dust. But they weren’t junk to him.

  They were memories.

  Proof of how smart he’d become.

  He gently placed the video game into the box, straightened the contents, then sealed the tile back into place.

  It looked like any other part of the floor. No one would know.

  His parents would be home soon.

  And Julian sat back on his bed, calm and content.

  Not because of what he had. But because of how he got it.

  By the time Julian turned seventeen, the plastic box beneath the floor was mostly forgotten.

  He didn’t need to steal toys anymore. He didn’t frame classmates or dig holes behind school sheds. That was old. Juvenile. Too easy.

  And one day, it started the same way everything had always started for Julian.

  He was on a bus, slouched in his seat, when he noticed the man next to him—drunk, dozing off, his phone barely tucked into the side pocket of his pants. A smartphone—not expensive, but new.

  Julian’s fingers itched.

  He just wanted a new phone.

  He’d heard things—about apps, online games, digital gambling that could turn boredom into adrenaline and rupees into hundreds.

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  He knew his parents would never buy him one.

  So he took it.

  Smooth. Silent. Quick.

  He even slipped the man’s SIM card back into his pocket, still sleeping, still unaware. That felt funny to Julian—like he was doing the man a favor.

  That evening, he walked into the house holding the phone like it was a gift from fate.

  “My friends bought it for my birthday,” he told his parents, smiling.

  They didn’t question it. Just nodded. Maybe even felt a little proud.

  He bought a new SIM card the next day.

  And the phone became his.

  He started playing games online.

  Not just for money—but for the thrill. The temptation. The rush of dopamine that turned a boring evening into fire.

  Rummy. Poker. Color prediction. Quick wins. Digital chaos.

  Ten dollars turned into fifty. Then two hundred. Then nothing.

  And then again.

  The losses stung—but the possibility lit him up.

  And when he played—really played, chasing the rush—his ears burned like hot pans.

  Sweat soaked his underarms.

  His breath came short, chest tight, fingers trembling over the screen.

  It wasn’t just stress. It was excitement. It was the thrill. And he loved it.

  It was the same fire he felt when he slipped the golden pencil into his sock. The same rush when he buried the stolen video game behind the school shed.

  But now the stakes were higher. Real money. Real risk.

  He didn’t need to bury anything anymore.

  He hid his losses in silence. His wins in screenshots.

  And when the balance ran out?

  He used his parents’ bank account—small amounts, unnoticed.

  When he needed more, he framed it. One blamed the other.

  Quiet chaos. Just enough to keep suspicion low.

  Because the money wasn’t what mattered.

  What mattered was the process. The temptation. The feeling.

  That was the true reward.

  And one day, Julian noticed his parents’ bank account was already touching its minimum balance.

  His fingers hovered over the transaction page, then paused.

  The numbers stared back at him—barely enough for rent, groceries, bills.

  He sighed.

  That well was dry.

  But Julian made a different plan.

  One that still gave him money—just not exactly to him.

  He waited until his father stepped out for a shower, then picked up his phone and dialed his uncle.

  He cleared his throat, lowered his voice, and mimicked his father almost perfectly.

  “Hello, brother… could you send me 200 dollars through online transfer? I’ll return it by the end of the month when I get my salary.”

  There was a pause on the other end.

  “Your voice sounds off,” his uncle said. “Are you down with a cold?”

  Julian coughed twice—light, controlled. “Yes, brother… the weather’s been rough.”

  Another pause. Then his uncle said, “Alright. Don’t worry. I’ll send it now.”

  The call ended.

  Moments later, the familiar ding of a notification echoed from the phone.

  $200 credited.

  Julian’s lips curved.

  That feeling again. The heat in his chest. The thrill in his blood. That familiar, addictive buzz. Not from the money itself—but from how he got it.

  He sighed softly, almost a laugh, then transferred the $200 to his own account from his father’s. A few taps. Smooth. Quiet.

  He deleted the message alert and transaction record. Then placed the phone exactly where he found it—screen off, undisturbed.

  As if it had never been touched.

  In his mind, he was already two steps ahead. He’d win $200 back easily—send it to his uncle using his dad’s phone again. No evidence. No problem.

  And if he lost?

  He’d just steal it from someone else before the end of the month.

  He laughed—loud and reckless, the thrill boiling over.

  His mother walked past the room, frowning. “Julian? What’s so funny? Tell me too—I want to laugh.”

  He looked at her.

  “Nothing, Mom. Just remembered a movie scene. That’s all.”

  He smiled. She smiled back.

  And then he went into his room, locked the door, and sat on his bed with the phone glowing in his hands.

  He played again.

  Loss. Win. Another win.

  When his balance hit $300, he nodded to himself. Calm now.

  He re-sent the $200 to his uncle’s account. Then called again, using his father’s voice.

  “Brother, I’ve returned the money.”

  His uncle chuckled. “Still sick, huh? Your voice sounds strange again.”

  Julian coughed once, gently. “Yes, brother… still the weather.”

  He ended the call and shook his head, a quiet grin spreading on his lips.

  This time, no loud laughter.

  Just a small smile.

  Like someone who’d mastered something.

  —---

  By the time Julian turned twenty-one, he was in university.

  New city. New people. New games.

  But Julian hadn’t changed. He’d only gotten better at hiding what he really was.

  To classmates, he was smart. Quiet. Sometimes charming. He kept his grades clean, his smile easy, his words soft. People trusted him.

  Especially Clara.

  She was his classmate—what started as casual friendship turned into something deeper. She liked his thrill-seeking nature, his hunger for excitement. His unpredictability made her feel alive.

  And Julian liked her too—her easy laugh, her softness, the way she seemed to understand him, even when he didn’t explain much. There was something effortless about being around her.

  One evening, she called him unexpectedly.

  Told him to meet her on the top floor of the college building.

  Just them.

  Julian went, suspicion flickering at the edge of his thoughts. “What’s so important?” he wondered.

  When he got there, he found Clara alone—one hand holding a beer bottle, the other clutching a small bunch of flowers.

  He blinked, surprised. “Clara... is this some special occasion?” he asked, half-laughing. “Don’t tell me... are you gonna propose or something?”

  He meant it as a joke.

  But then she dropped to one knee—grinning, not nervous. Held up the beer bottle instead of a ring.

  “Julian,” she said, “I love your madness. Your energy. You make everything feel like a ride. So yeah—I love you. Do you love me?”

  Julian stared.

  He didn’t feel love. He felt curiosity. The kind that asked: What if?

  Was it real? Was it just a phase? A passing thrill like everything else?

  He didn’t know.

  But the idea of this—this “new thing,” this strange version of love—tempted him.

  So he nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I love you too.”

  She handed him the bottle. He opened it, took a long swig. She drank after him.

  The beer was bitter.

  The flowers smelled sweet. He breathed them in like a side dish to the taste of alcohol, a strange mix of bitter and soft.

  It was weird. Beautiful. Offbeat. Just the kind of thing Julian liked.

  They stood facing each other.

  Julian felt his heartbeat quicken—fast, hard, as if something inside him was sprinting toward the edge.

  Clara’s smile never faded. She was steady. Warm. Like a magnet pulling him in.

  Then, without a word, they moved—drawn to each other, breath meeting breath.

  Julian’s lips found hers—not soft, not rough, but with a pressure that bordered between pain and pleasure. Just enough to feel it. Just enough to make her gasp and lean in closer.

  Their hearts thudded in unison, like distant war drums, echoing between them. Sweat gathered at their temples. Adrenaline surged.

  The smell of beer.

  The sweetness of crushed rose petals on her wrist. The raw scent of skin and heat and something new.

  It mixed into the air around them—strange, electric, alive.

  And then the sky cracked.

  A boom of thunder rolled across the rooftops. Clouds burst.

  Rain poured like it had been waiting for this exact moment.

  But they didn’t move.

  They didn’t pull away.

  Only when the chill reached their skin and soaked through their clothes did the world return to them—reminding them they were still on the top floor. Still visible. Still real.

  They looked at each other, eyes wide, lips parted.

  And then they smiled.

  The kind of smile only young lovers share. The kind that says, we were here. We felt this.

  So they stayed there, in the storm, letting it baptize them. Not caring who saw. Not caring what came next.

  Just lost in the moment—as if it was the only one that mattered.