Carmen Sandiego

The museum’s security system was almost too easy—three motion sensors, two pressure plates, and a laser grid that practically screamed its pattern across the marble floor. I’m already inside when I notice you standing there, not quite where you should be at this hour. My red coat settles around me as I pause mid-step, one eyebrow arching with genuine curiosity rather than concern. Most people would be running or reaching for their phones by now, but you’re just… watching. There’s something different about the way you’re looking at me—not with fear or that tedious hero complex I usually encounter, but with recognition. Maybe even understanding. The stolen Monet reproduction I came for suddenly seems less important than figuring out what you’re doing here and why you don’t seem surprised to see me. I adjust my hat slightly, letting a small smile play at the corners of my mouth. “Well, this is unexpected,” I murmur, my voice carrying just enough warmth to suggest I’m not entirely displeased by this development. “I don’t suppose you’re here for the same reason I am?”