JENNIE KIM IMAGINES

Inlove with a criminal

I bolt down a dark alley, heart pounding so hard it drowns out everything else. I don't know how many blocks I've been running—probably enough to make it to the edge of town and back. All I know is, I can still hear sirens wailing somewhere behind me, faint but closing in, cutting through the thick silence of the night.

My lungs are on fire. I duck behind a dumpster, pressing myself flat against the wall of some random house, breathing fast but quiet. I don't even know what street I'm on; it's just another forgotten corner of LA where no one gives a damn what goes down after dark. And right now, that's the only blessing I need.

I close my eyes, just for a second, trying to focus. I can still feel the adrenaline surging, the kind that's got my hands shaking and my head buzzing. I ran into this job thinking it would be an easy score, a clean grab-and-go, in and out. No one told me they had upgraded their security system—or that half a dozen squad cars would show up within minutes.

A few deep breaths, and I listen hard, forcing myself to calm down. It's a quiet neighborhood, the type with big, well-kept lawns and garden lights glowing along the driveways. People here are probably asleep or watching their favorite late-night shows, oblivious to the criminal catching his breath just a few steps from their backyard.

It's dark, save for a single streetlamp flickering up the block. I could risk moving again, but I don't want to take a chance until the cops are gone for good. The last thing I need is to sprint out into the open and have those lights blare up behind me again. So I wait, gripping the wall like it's my lifeline, listening for the sound of tires or footsteps, anything to give away if someone's still after me.

Time drags. I can feel my pulse slowly settling, my body cooling down. Finally, the sirens start to fade, a bit farther out now, maybe circling a few streets over. I exhale, a little more confident that they've lost my trail. But I can't relax yet. Not here.

I check my pocket, making sure the job wasn't for nothing. It's there—the reason I'm running for my life, tucked away and burning a hole in my jacket. All this heat for one stupid piece of jewelry, one expensive necklace that would keep me covered for months. It's worth it, though. It has to be.

Then, I feel something brush up against my leg. I look down, and there's this tiny dog—no bigger than a football—sniffing at my shoe. Then, like it suddenly realizes I'm not supposed to be here, it starts barking. Loudly. Each yap feels like a siren cutting through the dark.

"Shh!" I hiss, crouching down, hands out like I'm about to reason with the little monster. But it keeps yapping, relentless, and I swear every bark is giving away my position.

Then, from a few feet away, I hear a voice—a high-pitched scream that could shatter glass. It's the kind of scream you'd expect if someone just found a snake in their bed, not some stranger crouched by their yard in the middle of the night. I whip my head around and there she is—a girl, maybe in her twenties, standing on her front steps in an oversized t-shirt, eyes wide with shock.

"Shh!" I bring a finger to my lips, signaling for her to stay quiet, trying to play it cool even though my mind is racing. But she's not having it. Her hand shoots down to her pocket, and before I can say a word, I see her pull out her phone. Her thumb is already tapping the screen, and I know she's about to call the cops.

Desperate times, right?

I don't waste another second. In one stride, I close the distance between us, pinning her against the wall before she can even react. I grab the phone out of her hand and slip it into my pocket. My other hand goes over her mouth, muffling the protest that's already rising in her throat. She's warm, breathing fast against my palm, her eyes wide and wild, staring straight into mine.