Child’s play.
Breaking into the bank had proven easier than even he could’ve foreseen. Blot out the cameras, a claw though the narrow slit between electronic doors. Hurt like a bitch, but he’d get better. Always did. Victor kept his head low as he heard the alarm sounding, weeks spend casing the joint, making sure he knew exactly where to go.
With a deft hop he was over the counter, smashing a computer just for fun. The money was in the vault, and the vault was laughably protected. Maybe it was a chore for the average criminal, but really, anyone in New York should’ve been preparing for the worst. And that was him. He stuffed bills into the backpack slung over his shoulder, dye packs and all. His skin would stitch itself back to his normal rosy complexion before the cops could show up.
He didn’t count the cash, just grabbed what he could as he counted to sixty in his head. At fifty-nine, he was on his feet and barreling toward the door. Ready to run, escape a richer man, and face none of the consequences of his actions.
(Narrator’s voice: He was wrong.) ( @mcstercfmcgic )