Donny knew the rhythm of quiet neighborhoods. The way screen doors swayed in the wind. The way floorboards groan differently depending on the house's age. He knew where the gravel was loose on a driveway and how far the porch light reached on a motion sensor. At nineteen, he wasn't a rookie anymore.
He moved like water — unhurried, relaxed, but precise.
Average height. Average face. No tattoos, no scars, no flashy clothes. He blended in easily. The only thing that stood out was his eyes — a golden shimmer looked almost unnatural.
He scaled the low fence behind the house with ease and crouched behind a tree, listening. Nothing but the soft hum of a fridge inside. The porch light was off. The window cracked open. He smiled faintly.
"Too easy," he whispered, not with arrogance, but confidence earned.
He slipped inside through the side door with a tensioned card. Carpeted hallway. Dim light upstairs. A creak as someone shifted in bed — not enough to panic, just a reminder to stay sharp.
Bedroom dresser. Second drawer. Gold necklace.
Thin, old. Sentimental piece, probably. Not gaudy enough for display, but just valuable enough to sting when it went missing.
He pocketed it and turned to leave, paused just long enough to catch sight of a dusty photo on the nightstand. A family. Happy once. Eyes just like his.
He looked away.
Then he was gone.
The warehouse was colder than usual that night.
Donny slid open the rusted sheet metal door and stepped into his private workshop — half-collapsed, cluttered with scrap, and reeking of melted metal and old rain. It was his space. No one came out here unless he brought them.
He kicked the furnace on and set the necklace on the workbench, stripping off his gloves.
"Selling it raw's how people get caught," he muttered as he prepped the mold. "Small town like this? Jewelry shows up intact, every pawn shop and antique freak in a ten-mile radius is gonna talk. Cops love patterns."
The necklace went into a crucible. Heat rose. Gold bubbled and shifted. He stirred with a steel rod and scraped off the surface junk, revealing clean, molten metal beneath. He poured it into a shallow circular mold, simple and clean. Once cooled, he stamped the back with a small metal press: DGW. Donny's Gold Wear.
"You reshape it," he said, inspecting the coin-like pendant. "Now it's just art."
His tone had a dry edge to it — not pride, not guilt. Just routine. He was good at what he did. Not because he loved it, but because it kept him fed.
The next morning was quiet, gray, and cold. Typical.
Donny unlocked the front door of the shop and flipped the sign. OPEN. The bell above jingled softly — too soft, he always thought. Too nice for a place like this.
The shop was small, almost claustrophobic. One front counter with a glass case, a rack of simple necklaces on the wall, and a wooden stool he'd carved names into over the years. Every piece on display had been "reshaped" like the one from last night. Former lives melted away and reforged into something new, something clean.
He set the newest pendant next to a pair of earrings that hadn't moved in weeks. It didn't look like much. That was the point.
A few customers wandered in and out before noon. Most browsed. None bought. Then she came in — mid-70s, quiet eyes, floral coat too thin for the wind outside.
She walked slowly, fingers tracing the edge of the display.
"These are lovely," she said softly.
Donny gave her a short nod. "All handmade."
"This one," she said, pointing to the new pendant. "It reminds me of something my husband had. Simple. Real. Before he passed."
There was a long silence.
"It's one of a kind," Donny said, and for some reason, that felt more honest than usual.
She bought it with cash. Exact change. Gave a faint smile and shuffled out the door, the bell chiming behind her.
That night, Donny sat on his carved-up stool, elbows on the counter, counting bills. The display case gleamed in the faint overhead light. One piece is gone.
He stared at the empty slot where the pendant had been. It was strange how something stolen could become something clean so easily — at least, to anyone else.
His reflection in the glass looked worn. Tired, maybe. But not soft. Still sharp around the edges. Still watching.
"One of a kind," he muttered again.
But he didn't know if he was talking about the pendant… or himself.
The door creaked open.
A man stepped in — tall, blond, well-dressed in a fitted black suit. Handsome in a cold, clean-cut way.
He didn't say a word.
His eyes drifted slowly across the shelves and displays, studying the room like he was memorizing it. Calm. Stoic. Almost clinical.
For five minutes, he wandered the store in silence. Never touched a thing.
Then he stopped in front of the wall display of necklaces. Stared.
"These are nice," he said at last, voice smooth. "Is the gold real?"
Donny turned to him. "One hundred percent gold. Handmade," he said flatly.
He couldn't read the guy. There was something off—something underneath the polished exterior.
Then, without warning, the man swept his arm across the wall, sending the necklaces crashing to the floor.
Still calm. Still smiling.
"This is quite the collection, isn't it? Four necklaces. Two rings. One pair of earrings. Modest stock, even by small-town standards. And yet..." He stepped closer, now standing at the front counter. "This shop doesn't have a supplier."
He leaned in slightly, grin widening.
"So tell me — how does a 19-year-old orphan afford all this? Any ideas, Donny Velmore?"
Donny smiled back, bright, disarming.
"Well, I go gold panning by the river. Not far from here. If you like, I'd love to take you sometime, Detective Michael Wells."
Michael's smile twitched, just for a moment. A flicker of surprise.
"So you know who I am. No matter," he said coolly, straightening up. "I'll take you up on that offer. I'd love to see how you got all this started."
He turned and walked toward the door.
Just as he reached it, he paused.
"I realize we didn't set a time. Let's say... Friday morning?"
Detective Michael left without waiting for a response.
"Friday, huh?" Donny muttered, staring at the door. "Guess that gives me time to prepare."
He closed up shop not long after. Lights off. Blinds drawn. Door locked. He stepped into the fading evening, the street still alive with a few locals shuffling by — nothing out of the ordinary for this time of day.
Two blocks later, he reached his apartment building. Old place, but the owner clearly cared. Some walls were peeling. Others had a fresh coat of paint that was probably still drying.
Donny climbed to the third floor, walked down a clean but empty hallway, and stopped at door 303. He unlocked it and stepped inside, flicking on the lights. A yellow hue washed over the space. Lived-in, but not cluttered.
He tossed his coat onto his brown, two-piece couch — comfy and simple — then walked to the fridge.
Inside: three eggs, half a carton of milk, two white onions, a green bell pepper, and some apple juice. Not exactly a feast, but it will do.
He cracked the eggs into a bowl and whisked them quickly. Pan on the stove. Heat to medium. A bit of oil. He diced a quarter of an onion and a slice of the bell pepper with practiced hands, then tossed them into the pan once it was hot enough. The eggs followed shortly after.
When they were cooked through, he slid everything onto a plate, grabbed a fork, and sank into the couch.
One bite in, he scowled.
"All that work just for them to taste like shit," he muttered.
After finishing his meal, he showered and went to bed.
Thursday morning.
He rolled out of bed with a groan, already thinking about Friday. He dressed and left for DGW — Donny's Gold Wear — unlocked the shop, walked in, and picked out a few small, rough-cut gold scraps from a drawer in the back.
Locking the place up again, he started the walk to the river. Not far, but not close either.
By the time he reached it, the sun was high. The river glittered under the light, framed by trees and the faint scent of moss and damp earth. Birds chirped above. The water ran clear and steady, its gentle sound almost peaceful.
Donny crouched by the edge and dug out a few shallow holes in the riverbed, pressing the gold bits deep enough not to be discovered by chance, but shallow enough that they'd be easy to retrieve later.
"I doubt there's much gold in this river," he thought. "So planting some is my best bet. The pieces are small — they won't trigger any alarms — but they're just enough to sell the lie. Enough to make it seem like this place could produce something… even if it can't."
He stood, wiping his hands on his jeans.
"This won't hold forever. I need a long-term solution. Michael's already running up on me — I can feel it. This'll buy me a little time, but not much."
Donny looked out across the river. For now, the lie was planted.
And tomorrow, it had to grow.
It was Friday morning. Donny stood in front of DGW, arms folded, eyes scanning the street.
Today felt warmer. Maybe it actually was—or maybe it was just nerves. Most likely both. Funny how you only start thinking about all the things that could go wrong once you're out of time to stop them, he thought.
Michael strolled up, wearing more casual clothes than before. No tie. No badge. But still that same confident air.
"Let's get going to your magical river, eh?"
And just like that, they were walking. Short trip. Long silence. Even Michael had no real expression now—cool, unreadable.
Eventually, they made it to the river.
Donny set down his backpack, unzipped it, and pulled out two panning kits—one newer, the other weathered just enough to pass as used. He handed the newer one to Michael, who took it without a word.
They got to work. The minutes dragged. Quiet except for the water and the slow swirl of silt in their pans.
After five minutes, Donny broke the silence.
"So... how long have you been a detective?"
Michael shifted slightly, clearly not expecting the question.
"Four years. I've been proving myself since college. Closed every case clean. Then they send me to this backwater town to chase a petty thief. But I won't be here long."
A pause.
"And what about you? That sketchy little shop... is that what you really wanted?"
Donny kept his eyes on the pan, watching the light ripple across the surface. His voice dropped a little.
"No. Not really. My uncle owned it. Raised me after my parents passed—a car crash when I was two. When he died of cancer, he left me the shop. Said it was mine to keep going."
Michael glanced at Donny's face, catching the edge in his voice.
"So what do you want?"
Donny hesitated.
"I want more money. Right now, it's just enough to get by. But that's not enough. I want it all. Riches beyond what anyone in this town dreams about. Enough to get the hell out."
Michael looked surprised for a second, then smirked.
"Really helping your case here, huh? Smooth."
Donny smirked back. "Just being honest."
Another hour passed. The sun rose higher. The light shifted.
It was time.
Donny carefully slipped one of the planted gold bits into his pan. He made it look casual, natural. Then, raising it with a grin:
Donny raised his pan with the planted gold, pretending to inspect it."Hey, I finally got something worthwhile," he said cheerfully.
Michael looked over, genuinely surprised, but didn't say a word — just smiled and kept panning.
Donny let himself relax a little… until he caught something out of the corner of his eye. A shadow, maybe? A figure, too still to be part of the trees, too vague to be real. It was gone a moment later.
He stared at the spot."You see that?" he asked, nodding toward the treeline.
Michael glanced over. "See what?"
Donny blinked, and the figure was no longer there."…Nothing. Thought I saw something."
Michael raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Donny shook his head and turned back to the water. Probably just nerves. Or paranoia.
They panned for another thirty minutes, just enough to make it feel real. Then they called it a day and went their separate ways.
Donny walked home, went through his usual routine—shower, food, lights out.
He fell asleep fast.
Donny woke in a dark room. A single table sat in the middle, a piece of paper lying on it. He walked over and picked it up. The message was simple: 4 days till descent.
Confused, he blinked awake. What did that mean? No time to dwell — he had work to do today.
He changed quickly and headed to DGW, unlocking the door and standing behind the counter. Today was as slow as usual, maybe slower. All week, he'd sold only one item. Granted, he hadn't worked two days, but still.
What can I do? he thought. I need sales… Maybe I get bold. Gold's good enough, but I'll never get out of here selling backwash gold jewelry.
After closing, Donny scoured the town for a new plan. Someone who had what he needed. Someone rich.
Mia. The mayor's daughter. Her collection was famous, but breaking in would be risky. But worth it.
He planned carefully and fell asleep, dreaming of descent again.
3 days till descent.
The next day, Donny scouted Mia's house. Close enough to count windows and doors, but never close enough to be caught. He tracked her social media, memorizing the party she was hosting tomorrow. Perfect.
He took a shower the following day, washed his hair, and styled it just right. Dressed sharp — a crisp white button-up, black pants, expensive cologne. Why not? Today, he was someone else.
He arrived at DGW and waited for the party to start.
Better to arrive late, when the crowd is thick and I can blend in.
Hours later, Donny slipped into the party. It was a sea of glittering wealth, people flaunting jewelry worth more than he'd ever seen. He sipped a drink, wandered carefully, studying the layout.
When the crowd thinned, he cracked a window on the first floor — just enough for a finger to slip through.
Mia, drunk and tired, went to bed as the last guests left.
Donny slipped inside, guided by his memory of the house. Two minutes of searching, and he found the jewelry box tucked away in the guest room closet.
He took a small pair of diamond earrings.
This should be enough, he thought.
But why stop there?
If I take just one, she might think it's lost. If I take the whole box… It's a clear robbery.
I should just take the earrings…
Why should I? I want it all.
He took the box, and he slipped back to the window and climbed out.
Suddenly, a scream pierced the night.
"WHO THE HELL ARE YOU? WHY ARE YOU IN MY HOUSE?!"
Donny sprinted into the shadows, heart pounding. No way she'd seen his face — but he had to get away.
He ducked into a dark alley, pressed against the cold brick wall, waiting for the danger to pass.
He made it home and collapsed into bed, exhaustion swallowing him whole.
Then the dream returned. The countdown.
It's time.
The next day, Donny dressed in his usual dull clothes, not daring to bring the jewelry. His plan was to wait, then sell them quietly on the black market or add them into gold pieces.
He unlocked DGW and hesitated — the door was unlocked.
That's strange.
Through the window, a pair of eyes stared back.
Without a word, Donny fled, heart racing. Officers poured from the alley, shouting and chasing.
He darted through the streets, pushing past pedestrians.
Suddenly, Michael tackled him to the ground in a narrow alley.
Donny struggled, kicking and scrambling to his feet.
Michael smiled widely, almost triumphant.
"Your greed got you here. It was a setup — the party. I knew you'd take the whole box. It had a tracker. If only you'd played it safe."
Tears blurred Donny's vision.
He bolted from the alley and onto the street —
A car sped toward him, headlights blazing.
Time slowed to a crawl.
Why can't I move?
Does it feel like this to everyone when they're about to die?