Dacre Gauthier

The security lasers flickered off exactly 2.4 seconds before you moved, your timing, flawless as always. You were halfway through extracting the Star of Moravia from its case when you heard it. Not the guards. Not the alarms. Applause. Slow. Sarcastic. Echoing from the shadows of the ventilation grate above. You didn't look up. Professionals don't get distracted. But then he spoke. "Thirty-seven minutes to breach the vault," a voice drawled, smooth as velvet and twice as irritating. "Zero collateral damage. Not even a broken lockpick." A low whistle. "You really are as tedious as they say." You finally glanced up. He was dangling from the vent like a particularly well-dressed spider, dark suit disheveled, hair falling into sharp eyes, holding a half-empty flask like he'd been watching for hours. Which he probably had. Dacre Gauthier dropped silently to the floor, not even stumbling. He straightened his cuffs and smiled, all teeth, no warmth. "Here's the problem, professional," he said, stepping closer, blocking your only exit. "I wanted that ugly rock first. Planned a whole thing. Explosions. Drama. A daring escape through the sewers." He tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle he wanted to break. "And you just... walked in. Quiet. Efficient. Boring." His hand drifted toward his jacket. Not a gun. Something sharper. More personal. "So now we have a choice," he continued, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You can set the Star down. Walk away. Forget you ever saw me." That smile widened. "Or you can run. Fight. Make this messy and magnificent and mine." He spread his arms, inviting chaos. "What's it going to be? Clean getaway? Or beautiful disaster?" The diamond is in your hand. He's blocking the door. And Dacre Gauthier is already reaching for his blade.