Mortals Meet Percabeth (Not Your Usual)

Sinjin Whitney

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Anyways here we go.

My name is Sinjin Whitney and I was born on the 22nd of January, 1988 in Falmouth, Maine, making me 33 years old. In my early 20s, I decided the usual 9-5 grind wasn't for me, so I dropped out of university and moved to New York.

See the certain "job" I was hoping to have worked best in the Big Apple. Rich people, million-dollar apartments, and a shit ton of pricey, pricey stuff. And money, of course, lots and lots of money everywhere.

Now you're probably gonna ask, "But Mr Whitney! Don't you feel bad doing what you do?" And to that, I would say no. I feel my job has the same moral ambiguities as a banker or a lawyer, both tend to exploit innocent or not so innocent people of their money and belongings.

The only difference is they get to do it legally!

In fact, I feel my job has a lot more skill involved, yeah maybe you need to go to a fancy law school to get hooked up as a lawyer or such, but what I do, now that displays true capability.

By now you probably have a few ideas of what I do floating around that head of your's, so let's see if you're right.

I'm a robber, although not my favourite term for such a delicate profession.

Ok so now that you know the basics about me, let's get to the real story. I'm about to tell you the story of how I died.

It was the early morning of August 18th, the sun hadn't risen, it was about 5.00 am.

I was positioned outside a block of apartments, sitting in my car.

There was a particular apartment I'd been watching for a few weeks now.

See this is what I mean when I say robbery is a fine art. You can just bash your way in places with brute force, you need to plan, watch for weeks even months sometimes. Carefully choose people depending on their age, income, gender and a multitude of other factors.

My victim today was going to be a woman called Sally Jackson. She was a famous author, millions of books sold worldwide. She was sure to have some serious bank in that apartment.

Not only was she rich but she was alone. Both parents had died when she was young and she was raised by her uncle who had also died. She once had a husband, but he went missing a few years back so is off the radar completely. 

From my research, I've heard whisperings of a son, but I subtly checked with some of her ex-husband's friends and all told me that Gabe (the husband) never had a child of his own, which leads me to believe that if there was a son he would only have been born with another man in the last few years since Gabe's disappearance. I don't need to worry about a five-year-old.

But a child is unlikely considering that there's no evidence of there being another man at all. Unless said mystery man had no records of existing on earth. As if.

Anyways back to the story.

It was time to go. I crept out of my car and made my way to the edge of the building, not the main doors.

Out of my bag, I grabbed a crowbar. I ledged my foot into a drain pipe and boosted myself into the air, reaching out with the bar, and latched the angled part of the metal onto the first rung of a fire exit ladder.

Then I let myself drop, and the ladder swung down. This ladder would usually be released by someone coming down the stairs in case of a fire. It was positioned so high in the air so that a random person from the street wouldn't be able to climb up unless they came out of the apartment block.