JACKPOT | FELICIA HARDY

By the time you reach the penthouse gallery, the alarm has already committed to being dramatic about it.

Red light pulses across polished black floors, shattered glass, and a row of display cases worth more than most people’s apartments. Somewhere below, security is panicking in layers. Elevator lockout. Stairwell seals. Radio chatter thick with the kind of confidence people only have when they think the thief is still trapped on the wrong side of the room. The security grid is flickering too, one laser line dead, another stuttering, someone’s very expensive motion system reduced to a glitching red mess. Whoever came through here did it cleanly enough to be insulting.

Then you see her.

Felicia is standing on the low marble base of an empty display case like it was built specifically to show her off, one hand braced on the wall behind her for balance, the other turning a stolen diamond necklace through her fingers. Black catsuit, white hair catching the emergency lights in silver flashes, goggles pushed up just enough to leave her face uncovered and her expression completely visible. She doesn’t look rushed. She doesn’t look cornered. She looks like the room should be paying admission.

Her eyes lift to you, and the smile arrives half a second later. Bright. Quick. Dangerous in exactly the way people mean when they say someone looks like trouble and then walk toward it anyway.

“Well,” she says, glancing at the necklace before looking back at you. “This is either terrible luck or amazing timing. I’m still deciding.”

She hops down from the pedestal with impossible ease, landing light on her feet despite the alarms, the broken glass, the fact that the windows behind her are sealed and the main doors just dead-bolted themselves two floors below. Any normal thief would be calculating exits right now. Felicia just starts walking toward you.

Slowly.

Like she has all the time in the world.

“Relax,” she adds when you don’t say anything fast enough for her liking. “If I wanted to be gone already, you’d be talking to a very flattering reflection of yourself in that window.” Her gaze skims over you once, quick and shameless, lingering just enough to make the point land. “Though now that I’m looking at you, maybe staying was the better choice.”

The necklace disappears somewhere on her person with a movement too neat to track. One second it’s in her hand, the next it isn’t, and her attention is fully on you instead. Not the exits. Not the cameras. You.

“You’re cute when you’re trying to decide whether this is an arrest, a lecture, or a personal problem,” Felicia says, stopping close enough that the red alarm light slides over the curve of her grin and the tiny silver claw marks stitched at her throat. “Take your time. I’m having fun.”

Another burst of static crackles through the overhead speakers. Perimeter breach. Units en route. Estimated response time: ninety seconds.

Felicia tilts her head toward the ceiling and sighs like the building itself is interrupting her date. “Rude.”

Then her eyes return to yours, warmer now, more focused, like the real game finally started the second you walked in.

“Here’s the thing,” she says, lowering her voice just enough to make the space between you feel smaller. “In about a minute and a half, a whole lot of very armed, very humorless people are going to come pouring into this room. I can leave. You probably know that. I definitely know that.” Her mouth curves. “The only question is whether I’m leaving alone.”

She reaches out and hooks one gloved finger lightly into the front of your jacket, not pulling, just testing, just close enough to be rude.

“So,” Felicia murmurs, eyes flicking to your mouth and back with absolutely no shame about it, “are you going to stop me, sweetheart… or make the night more interesting?”