Number 13 Chiswick Street.

**Chapter 1: Under the Bed**

Under the dim streetlight, Lazarus tossed a nearly burnt-out cigarette onto the ground.

Then, his gaze swiftly darted to both sides as he habitually pressed the cigarette butt under his shoe, rubbing it back and forth.

"Damn it..."

Lazarus jerked his foot; he had forgotten that the sole of his shoe had long worn thin, almost to the point of transparency. Now, he'd burnt the bottom of his foot.

The cold night breeze swept through the street, with hardly any pedestrians in sight. Those few in the distance were hurrying along, heads down, wrapped in scarves and hats.

Lazarus turned up the collar of his coat. The edges were shiny with grime, but at this moment, they gave him a sense of being hidden and protected.

Ahead was 128 Chiswick Street. From No. 50 to No. 200, all the buildings were townhouses. Whoever owned or rented a place here was not necessarily wealthy but could be considered middle class.

The house in front of him was home to a family of three: the father was a doctor, the mother a teacher, and they had a seven-year-old son.

During the day, a maid came to clean, but she never stayed overnight, leaving after preparing dinner.

Moreover, this family had a routine: every Saturday night, they would go out together to the theater.

The door opened, and the father, dressed in a black suit, was the first to step out and start the car parked by the entrance.

Shortly after, the mother, wearing a red dress, walked out with their child, chatting happily as she locked the door and got into the car.

Then, the car drove off.

Lazarus licked his lips, quickly stepped forward, jumped over the low wooden fence that couldn't even stop a small dog, landed in the flowerbed, and climbed the steps. He took out a key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock.

"Click..."

The crisp sound indicated a successful unlock.

Three months ago, while working as a mover for this family, the trusting wife had handed over the keys to the new house to the moving company. Lazarus had secretly made a copy.

At that time, he had hesitated about stealing; he was nearly broke.

Now, he didn't have to hesitate because he wasn't just broke—he was drowning in debt.

As he opened the door and quickly shut it behind him, Lazarus muttered, "After tonight, you should understand why you need to change your locks after moving in."

The first floor had an open-plan kitchen and dining area, along with a maid's room in the northwest corner.

Lazarus headed directly to the second floor, not turning on any lights but using a flashlight he'd brought along. The beam was a bit unstable.

"Damn it..."

Lazarus cursed silently again, realizing the batteries were low. He had spent the money meant for batteries on a pack of 5-ruble "Molf" cigarettes instead.

He banged the flashlight on his elbow a few times, and its light became slightly brighter.

The second floor had the master bedroom, a small study, and a bathroom.

The attic on the third floor served as the child's bedroom due to its low ceiling.

Lazarus opened the master bedroom door, revealing a large bed and various antique cabinets. He knew the valuable items were most likely in this room, though he'd still check the study before leaving.