Chapter Text
There he is.
Eren sips his coffee, gazing over the plastic lid. The crowd milling about in front of the counter is littered with interesting people. Half-shaved heads, crisp suits, and cable-knit sweaters. Piercings, tattoos, and unmarred skin. 4-inch heels, shiny leather oxfords, even cowboy boots. An entire spectrum of personal expression stands before him, packed together in a too-warm, too-small, trying-too-hard cafe in the middle of New York City. Yet, fascinating as they are, none of those people can hold Eren’s attention once the man of the hour steps through the door.
Right on time.
7:15 a.m., every single day, short, dark, and scowling orders an extra hot Earl Grey tea to go. He doesn’t speak, the baristas already familiar with his beverage of choice. Pays in cash, with exact change, but still drops a tip into the little tin between the tills. Then he waits, not with the mass of customers by the counter but in a seat by the window. What for, though, Eren has no idea. The guy never looks out the damn window but instead pulls out his phone to do God knows what. Maybe to get a jumpstart on work. Maybe to text a scorned lover. Maybe to slaughter people in Among Us.
How is Eren supposed to know? The dude’s natural resting face would make a chicken shit hard-boiled eggs.
The baristas never call his name but physically walk out from behind the counter to hand him his reusable tumbler. Then he takes exactly one drink of his scalding beverage, as if he’s some kind of fucking tea specialist, before striding out of the cafe.
The process is repeated at 9:45 p.m., seven days a week. After which, Mr. If-Looks-Could-Kill gets into his obnoxiously average car and drives home. Out of the main part of the city. To his—just as obnoxious but for an entirely different reason—eight-thousand-square-foot, five-bedroom, six-bathroom house.
Why even bother pretending to be low maintenance when your home screams, ‘I’m fucking loaded’? What a waste. It’s not like the guy ever invites people over or something, so what the hell are all the extra rooms for?
Eren’s been asking himself that question again and again since studying the floor plans.
Hm? Oh, yeah.
Eren Jaeger is the exact opposite of Sir Grumpy Cat. A high-maintenance bitch without the paycheque to back it up. He drinks syrup and cream-filled lattes and flirts with the baristas. Drools over million-dollar cars and anything that shimmers or sparkles. Despises mornings and curses the flaming day ball that accompanies them, unless he’s going to the beach.
So why is he here, at 7:18 a.m., watching as Glare of the Year Award leaves, tumbler in hand, tailored blazer billowing in the breeze like a damn cape? Because aside from his day job of … well, looking for a day job, Eren’s a casual, part-time, for-the-thrills independent analyst and procurement specialist of rare and valuable—he’s a fucking thief, okay?
And that man is Eren’s next target.
3:00 a.m. For some, an ungodly hour to still be conscious. For Eren? The glow of the full moon lighting his path, the stars twinkling like diamonds across the velvet black sky—never a better time to slink around the city in a full-body latex catsuit. Tacky? Maybe. A living trope? Absolutely. But if he’s going to break into a millionaire’s house in the dead of night, Eren’s going to look damn fine doing it.
He’s such a blessing to security footage, it’s almost a shame he’s never actually caught on camera.
Breaking into a high-security residence shouldn’t be easy. Isn’t easy. But Eren’s spent weeks working up to this moment. Little by little, day by day. Only amateurs do all the steps of a robbery the moment of, and Eren’s no white belt in his craft. The hours he’s spent watching his target have paid off. There are easier people to rob, of course, but Eren’s been there, done that. Will probably do so again in a week or two. Right now, though, he needs the white-hot adrenaline injected straight into his veins from this particular heist.
Is it risky as fuck? Absolutely. But that’s what makes it so fun!
Maybe Armin’s right. Maybe theft is like a drug. But if that’s the case, Eren’s already a junkie, and he’s not ready to get sober yet.
After disabling the cameras and alarms from the electric panel around the back of the house, he locates the window he’d worked open a few nights ago. It’s perfectly intact, as it should be. Only morons damage their entrance into a place. How much more obvious can you get? And all the Hollywood bullshit is exactly that. As cool as it looks in movies, you can’t just carve a circle and pop it out. You can’t climb into and crawl through the vents. And hell have mercy on anyone stupid enough to talk to Eren about goddamn lasers. No, all he did was carefully jostle the window from the outside while Captain Suits was at work until the lever lock released.
He could enter through one of the three doors into the place, sure. The whole hairpin lock-picking trick is one of the few things Hollywood gets mostly right. But this window is closer to the room Eren wants access to, and the longer he remains in the house, the greater the chances of being caught.
He wants the thrill of the risks without the going to jail part. That would put a wrench in the whole finding ‘a real job’ thing.
And Armin would kill him.
Window open, Eren slips through it, the dark interior of the house swallowing him. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, but he waits. He refuses to use his flashlight unless it’s necessary. Then he creeps out of the library and into the next room. It’s filled floor to ceiling with dressers and wardrobes, but none of them holds clothes. Instead, as his gloved fingers gently tug each drawer and door open, he’s greeted with trophies, statues, and all other manner of ‘who really needs all this shit?’. As if Eren’s going to judge, though. He’s the one breaking into the place to relieve Mr. Dead-Inside of his trinkets, after all. Besides, considering the work the dude puts into not flashing his wealth around in public, it’s not like he’s going to miss a few little things, right?
Eren sifts through everything until he finds the dresser housing his heart’s desire.
Jewelry. Lots and lots of jewelry.
Bracelets, necklaces, rings, and much more. He shouldn’t be surprised Sir Always-on-Time has so many pocket watches, and yet, as Eren’s gaze glides over the collection, ranging from the stereotypical diamond-covered to full-on steampunk open clockwork, his jaw hangs open. He’s drooling so much, Eren barely has time to wonder why this guy has all this shit if he never wears any of it before he’s already picking his favourites and tucking them into the small bag attached to his belt.
He’s not taking everything. That would be dumb. The ultimate way to steal is to make it look like his victims haven’t been robbed. Make them do a double-take and question their own sanity. Make them wonder if they personally misplaced something or if they ever actually owned something at all. And this varied of a collection across the board is perfect for such a ruse.
It’s almost as if the tea snob wanted to get pinched.
But Eren isn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he snags a few of everything. A couple necklaces, a few bracelets, some rings, even a pocket watch or three. It’s not until he’s satisfied that Eren spots an unusual item among the rest.
A single wood-crafted, leather-strapped, classic watch.
It’s nothing like the rest of the guy’s possessions. The leather’s cracked, the threading along the sides is coming loose. The wood is dull and scuffed. It’s a wonder the clock face even functions, but when Eren picks it up, the second hand is indeed still ticking, despite it twitching and wobbling with every jump forward. Why is it here, though? Why would someone who has everything, can buy anything, keep something like this?
A creak from outside the room. Eren tenses and whips his head around, but finds nothing. It could just be the floor shifting. The rising and falling temperatures between day and night tend to make wood sing, but he’s not willing to stick around and hear its last note.
He closes the drawer with swift yet gentle fingers and slips from the room. A quick glance up and down the hall. Still nothing. Shit. Okay. Good. Maybe now his heart can wiggle back down into his che—a flash and a bang.
Fuck! Half blinded and ears ringing, Eren whirls around and darts in the opposite direction. The hall is clear of obstacles, so at least there’s that as he stumbles forward, blinking to clear his vision. It’s a good thing he knows the layout of the house. The side door is just a few meters away when another shot echoes through the hall. Eren’s not stupid enough to glance back, though, and the blend of icy fear and searing adrenaline rushing through him is fogging his senses too much to assess if he’s been hit. All he can think is, go, go, GO!
The door is in sight! He’s almost there!
Something slams into him from behind.
Eren crashes to the floor.
Son of a bitch! He flails and writhes, trying to avoid being pinned down, and wiggles free enough to turn and kick. The guy falls back with a shout. Eren scrambles back up, but he only makes it two steps before he’s thrown to the floor again. And this time, his chin smashes against the varnished wood planks. Lightning shoots up his jaw, his vision warps, the moonlight leaking through the nearby windows just making it harder to see.
The shock only lasts for a few seconds, but he stalls long enough for his attacker to climb on top of him.
“Get off me!”
The only response he gets is a punch in the face.
Despite the searing pain in his temple and the spots dancing in front of his eyes, Eren blocks the second strike by throwing his arms up. Then catches the third punch. The guy tries to pull back, but Eren doesn’t work out six days a week for nothing. They grapple, tumble, slam into the baseboards, and toss each other around until Eren finally gets his legs under himself and bolts out of the other man’s grasp.
Or at least, mostly.
A fist yanks on his mask, ripping it off. Eren stumbles and nearly collides with the side of the staircase, then charges forward, eyes locked on the door. Don’t look back, don’t look back! He reaches it, footsteps hot on his heels, hauls the door open, and leaps out into the yard.
The moment his shoes meet the grass, he keeps running, running, running—another gunshot. Eren flinches, but his feet keep carrying him, even as the lantern hanging from the gazebo to his right explodes. He reaches the gate and heaves himself over it with trembling arms, nearly crashing to the ground as his muscles scream in protest.
It’s only once he lands on the other side, hot tears caressing his cheeks, half his body numb, the other half on fire, that he looks back. He shouldn’t, but he can’t help it. After all, he almost died tonight, and he’s too fucking smug to resist a parting victory glance. Then he books it across the street, darts around some trees, and weaves through a few well-known alleys.
Eren only stops when his legs give out.
Limbs shaking, throat raw, he slumps to the ground and lays there for a while. Time becomes irrelevant until the late-night breeze makes him shiver, the sweat beneath his skin-tight suit now ice cold. Only then does he slowly peel himself up and into a seated position against the brick wall harbouring him. And laughs.
Because somehow, when he digs through the bag of spoils still strapped to his belt, the first thing he finds is that damn scuffed watch.
Eren pauses outside and fixes his lapels. It’s rented, of course. As if he has the money to afford a perfectly tailored suit of his own. He fiddles with his cufflinks, a lovely set of liberated craftsmanship from two months ago, and checks his watch. 10:25 a.m.
Right on time.
And to think, Armin had the balls to scold him when he saw the black eye he’s sporting this morning. Yet here Eren is, makeup applied to perfection, hair washed and tied back, fresh and fit and loaded with pain medication. But this is the first job interview he’s had in weeks, so there’s no way he’s going to let his little … tussle from last night stand in the way of an actual attempt at adulting. Besides, the rent is due soon, and Armin refuses to pay it with money liquidated from stolen goods.
As if Eren would willing trade in most of the shit he’s snagged anyway.
He has a good feeling about this interview, though. Sure, he’ll have to start at the bottom and climb his way through the ranks like any ordinary, boring person, but Eren wouldn’t have become a thief if he were afraid of hard work. And really, compared to dodging bullets, how terrifying can some corporate HR snob be?
Confidence through the twenty-floor high roof, Eren strides into the investment firm and approaches the reception desk. He smiles and flirts, charming his way through the sign-in and badge process before practically floating into the elevator. Though that might be more from the drugs he popped back this morning, but that’s not the point.
As the all-glass lift rises, Eren takes a slow, deep breath.
You’ve got this.
A brainless monstrosity could land a job like this.
Knock ‘em dead, Jaeger!
The elevator slows, beeps, the doors slide open. Eren steps out and is greeted by a second, much smaller, reception area. The woman seated there confirms his name and checks his badge, then he’s guided into the office without a fuss. It’s strange, though. Why would the HR department be on the top floor? Whatever. He isn’t here to criticize, he’s here to impress.
He can criticize plenty after they’ve hired him.
The doors close behind him once he’s inside. Then Eren plasters his well-trained, thousand-watt smile in place and approaches the man conducting his interview, who’s currently hunched over a bunch of papers. The dude doesn’t even look up. But, apparently, he doesn’t have to.
“Eren Jaeger?”
Eren hesitates. Yeah, his name’s booked in for the appointment, so it’s not a surprise the guy knows it. Honestly, Eren would have been concerned if the HR person didn’t know his name. No, that’s not why he slowed down. His smile falters a little. He can’t place exactly why, but the closer he gets to the desk, there’s something … almost familiar about the guy? Which is ridiculous because all Eren can see is the top of his head, and yet ...
“Yes, sir.” He chances another few steps forward, then freezes entirely when the guy straightens his back and finally lifts his head.
“I’m Levi Ackerman, CEO of Paradis Investment Corps.”
Ice floods Eren’s veins. His heart slams against his ribs. He has half a mind to turn and race from the office as fast as possible. He doesn’t, though, and it’s all Armin’s fault. The only thing keeping him rooted in place is the idea of his best friend’s disappointment should he return home still unemployed. But as he holds the cold, tea-grey gaze boring into him, Eren slowly shifts his left arm, curling his hand around his right wrist.
To hide the worn wooden watch.
“Take a seat.” Levi gestures to the chair in front of him. “I’ll be conducting your interview.”
Eren swallows, but it might as well be sand or glass shards scraping his throat. What’s going on? Why is the CEO of the company interviewing him for an entry-level data position? Where’s the HR person who set up the appointment? And most importantly—how did Eren never figure out his latest victim was Levi fucking Ackerman?