Signet

As he set the bottles down, he began to pour a simple highball for another customer, Damian half-smirked. He put one hand on the counter when he got back to her.

“How was work?” he asked.

Sarah took a small sip of her drink before answering. “Alright. Nothing much today.” She kept it vague. He only knew about the music store, and she preferred it that way.

She twirled the straw once. “And you?”

Damian shrugged. “It’s been okay. Busy enough.” He tilted his head and looked at her in that relaxed, practiced way he picked up behind the bar.

Then he asked, glancing sideways. “So what do I owe the sudden pleasure?”

Sarah scoffed, leaning back. “What, you’re not happy to see me? I’m pretty sure I’m your only friend around here. Or anywhere.”

That earned an eye roll as he reached for a bottle of heavy-scented whiskey.

“If you really want to know,” she added, lifting her glass, “I was free tonight and figured I’d enjoy myself.”

Her eyes drifted over the room as the bar slowly filled up.

Sarah tilted her back to him, taking a slow sip. “Thought I’d pay poor old you a visit before I’m off.”

He blinked, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “You’re leaving?”

She waved her hand casually. “Yeah, I’ll be visiting my parents next week… back in St. Petersburg.”

Damian’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh… did anything happen?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Just some stuff to settle down there.”

“Right.” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

There was a brief pause. Sarah took another sip, eyes scanning the room. Then she asked, “What about you? What are you doing for the holidays next week?”

Damian shrugged, his casual mask slipping. “Not sure. I’ll figure it out then.”

She waved three fingers at him. “You’ve got three days off, right? Figure something out.”

“Just make sure you work on that accent of yours while you’re at it,” she teased, tapping her straw against her glass. “It’s horrible.”

“These apps don’t teach accents,” he scoffed. “I’d need to go to Russia to get the accent.”

Sarah’s mind raced. That last line… it sounded like he was asking to be invited.

Damian? Completely oblivious. He hummed quietly, half-listening to the clink of ice in his glass, half-glancing at the doorway as if anticipating someone.

For a moment, Sarah wondered if she’d read it wrong. Her fingernails tapped against her glass.

It sounded like it could be a lot of fun.

She stole a quick glance at him, catching him mid-serve with another trio of customers. He shifted smoothly between them. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second; he gave her a quick look before turning back, fully absorbed in the customers again.

Sarah exhaled, a small smile tugging at her lips. She leaned back, letting the thought linger before coming to a decision.

Damian returned to her side of the bar a few minutes later, brushing his hands lightly as he set down a clean glass.

“Do you pack a lot?” Sarah asked, tilting her head.

He frowned. “I don’t think so… Why?”

“You’ve got cash?” she prodded lightly.

“I mean I’ve been working overtime recently,” he replied, shrugging.

Sarah arched an eyebrow. “And… are you a hassle to room with?”

Damian blinked, mildly insulted at the question. “Do I give that impression?”

She tilted her head, thinking for a few seconds, eyes flicking toward the crowd of patrons. Then slowly, she said, “Well… since I’m traveling all the way to St. Petersburg, and since we’re both on leave… why not go together? Good chance to relax, yes?”

Damian’s expression shifted, caught between surprise and consideration. He didn’t answer immediately.

Sarah tried to look casual as she continued to look around the rest of the bar, but the silence was eating away at her. She had anticipated some acknowledgment but he remained motionless, only observing her with a perplexing head tilt.

Her chest tightened. Maybe she misread it. She waved her hand dismissively. “I mean… I get it, you know—busy and all that. Shifts, work… whatever.”

Damian studied her for a moment, then, small smile returning, asked, “What time next week?”

Sarah’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth to discuss details.

Then Damian’s phone buzzed. He glanced down, nodding as he whispered into it. After a brief exchange, he slipped it back into his pocket.

“Shit, uh…” he said, shoving his phone back into his pocket. “I really have to go. Something came up… a last-minute thing. Just… message me about it, yeah?”

Sarah blinked, confused, then gave a casual thumbs-up. “Sure.”

He returned the gesture with a wave before speaking in Portuguese to a colleague behind the bar. “Desculpa, mano, podes cobrir o meu turno? Obrigado!” Patting his back.
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ (“Sorry bro, can you cover my shift? Thanks!”)

The interior of the cab had a subtle leather and cold air freshener odor. The city lights slid across the window in thin streaks as Damian sat in the rear seat.

He’d barely closed the door before the driver passed a small black case over the headrest.

Inside lay a Roman signet ring. A deep red intaglio, with a carved profile of Augustus.

His earpiece clicked alive the moment he touched it.

“If you’ve seen the package,” his handler said, lively, “that is an almost perfect replica of the Roman signet ring Augustus had. Lovely piece, yes?”

Damian snapped the case shut. “Well, I couldn’t really tell now, could I?”

“You’ll find out in a bit,” his handler replied.

The cab made a sudden left turn and was slowing down as it neared a less busy road. Without a word, the driver stopped the car two blocks from the back door of the ​‍​‌‍​‍‌​‍​‌‍​‍‌museum.

Damian stepped out, jacket zipped all the way, cold air rolling across the pavement. Behind him, the cab drove off instantly, its taillights vanishing down the hill.

“Anyway,” the handler continued in his ear as Damian started walking, “there’s a private auction coming up, with collectors bidding on Augustus’ rings. This’ll fetch a few million easily.”

Damian inhaled through his chilling nose. “And how much will it be getting me?”

“I can try for… hmm… eighteen hundred?” the handler mused, as if picking a number from the air.

“That’s rather high,” Damian said a tad bit shocked. “Considering what you usually get me.” He said as he had a few kids brush past his feet.

His handler chuckled. “I wouldn’t mind taking a cut.”

“Talk me through the plan,” Damian cut in, already rounding the corner toward the museum’s service path.

“Alright, alright,” the handler said. “Listen carefully. The museum closed fifteen minutes ago. Staff have just exited the premises. You’re approaching from the back. The Roman wing is on the second floor, but security is awake.”

8:18 PM.

“Two roaming guards upstairs,” the handler continued. “One stationed near the Roman exhibit entrance, poor fellow’s freezing.”
Damian nodded slightly, eyes tracing the dark hedges leading to the rear staff door.

“And extraction?” he asked.

“Same way you came in,” the handler said breezily. “Unless you screw up. In which case… run.”

Damian slid the lock pick from his sleeve. The back service door was old, scratched metal, paint chipped along the edges. Perfect.

Two twists. One soft click.

He eased the door open and stepped inside.

The air was colder and smelling faintly of garlic. Total darkness besides the narrow spill of light from the cracked doorway behind him.

“Alright,” his handler said in his ear, voice bright. “Good news! I’ve managed to hack into these camera systems, i’ll be shutting cameras down in sequence as you move.”

“Got it.” Damian took a slow glance around. Storage room. Shelves stacked with wooden crates, cleaning supplies, and folded banners for past exhibits.

Lights were off.

He took a few steps forward, careful with his footing. His fingers brushed along a cold metal shelf as he moved deeper.

The room opened up to a second door.

He pressed it gently, opening into a kitchen.

Stainless steel counters, an industrial stove, stacked pans, and a light smell of dried broth filled the air. A fridge hummed softly. The emergency exit sign glowed weakly above the doorway opposite him.

Damian blinked once, quietly. Kitchen?

He mouthed a silent exhale.

He stepped in, letting the door close behind him.

“Alright,” he whispered. “Where am I from here?”

There was a flurry of paper from the handler’s end—he was probably flipping through the outdated museum blueprint he’d scavenged.

“Okay, okay—got you,” the handler said. “You’re in the restaurants kitchen. Lucky you, I guess. Exit through the door on your left. That hallway should take you behind the ground-floor exhibition rooms. You’ll need the stairs at the far end.”

Damian glanced left. A dark hallway stretched out, illuminated only by emergency lighting strips along the floor.

Damian’s shoes made no sound as he stepped into the hallway.

The lights were thin emergency strips along the floor. The museum felt half-asleep. His footsteps were silent on the polished tiles as he moved through the corridor.

Paintings lined both sides of the hall. Some hung alone with handwritten placards beneath them, others were paired with small lecterns that were designed to loop videos.

Every now and then, a statue interrupted the line of paintings—mostly marble figures. He didn’t stop for any of it. His eyes only skimming through.

As he pushed farther along, the hallway widened into the museum’s main lobby.

The ceiling rose sharply above him, supported by tall columns that vanished into darkness. In the center of the open space hung a massive skeletal structure, a flying reptile with its wings extended as if frozen mid-dive. Probably some pterosaur reconstruction, suspended by wires nearly invisible in the dim light.

“I should check this place out when I get the time,” he muttered under his breath.

His handler chimed in immediately, tone bright and dismissive. “We can do all the sightseeing _after* the job, alright?”

“How’d it even fly?” Damian still referring to the colossal skeletal structure ahead of him, before eventually dragging his eyes away.

Below it, two armored knights stood on separate pedestals facing each other, each holding a sword angled downward. Behind them, glass cases held old weapons, pottery, coins.

Damian’s gaze flicked across the wide room, scanning for movement. Empty.

He went around the lobby to his right side, where a staircase was winding up to the second floor.

Damian ascended the stairs one by one with his boots, and he was very careful not to make any ​‍​‌‍​‍‌​‍​‌‍​‍‌noise.

The handler’s voice crackled softly in his ear. “Alright, you’re upstairs.”

Damian exhaled through his nose. “What do we got?”

“Three guards up here,” the handler said, cheerfully unbothered. “One parked near the Greek department, one stationed in the Roman wing where your shiny little prize is, and the third is doing slow patrol rounds.”

Damian reached the top step and paused, eyes scanning the long corridor stretching ahead. “Where’s the patrol now?”

“Opposite side of the floor. Far left corridor. You’re clear for the moment.”

“Alright.”

“Take your first right,” the handler continued. “That’ll drop you into… uh—the Colonial Room. They turned it into some kind of hybrid exhibit. Early global trade, maritime something.”

Damian slipped into the Colonial Room.

The space was long and evenly lit, glass cases showed old compasses, model caravels, crates of faded textiles, a massive ship wheel mounted on one wall.

“Alright,” the handler said, still flipping pages somewhere on his end. “Once the patrol loops around to the far corridor, you’ll move through the east passage toward the Roman wing. I’ll kill the cameras ahead of you one by one.”

A faint blur in the reflection of a display case.

Damian froze, lowering his stance slightly. His ears perking up.

“…Handler,” he whispered, barely moving his lips, “would anyone else happen to be here tonight?”

A beat.

Then the handler, suddenly alert: “No. Competition is unlikely. We’re the only ones who had intel the ring was transferred to Porto.”

Footsteps from a heavy police boot started echoing.

The handler continued, voice tightening, “Why? Is someone there?”

Damian’s shoulders lowered another inch, muscles coiling.

“Maybe,”

But before the handler could respond, he heard heavy thumps of reinforced boots moving down the upstairs corridor. The patrol.

Too close.

Damian’s gaze swept the room fast.

Then he spotted the large wooden table set beneath the mounted ship wheel, its underside deep enough to crawl behind.

He slipped behind it just as the guard’s boots reached the threshold.

The​‍​‌‍​‍‌​‍​‌‍​‍‌ guard was mumbling something under his breath in Portuguese. He came inside, His belt’s metal parts making soft clinking sounds.

Damian held his breath, body flattened behind the carved desk.

Another step. Closer and closer.

The guard paused right by the ship wheel, tilting his head. He’d heard something.

Damian’s grip tightened. One move and he could knock the guard down. Then he’d have to sprint to the Roman wing and hope the second guard didn’t hear it.

Then the guard’s radio crackled.

An exchange in Portuguese.

The​‍​‌‍​‍‌​‍​‌‍​‍‌ guard tensed up, mumbled a brief answer, and quite fast, turned his way back. Another pair of heavy steps was heard before the guard could even disappear from the sight, this time from the opposite corridor.

Backup.

The three guards ran down to the stairs to see what was going on.

Damian finally let out a long, thin exhale. His muscles loosened.

“Good save,” his handler said quietly.

Damian peered out from behind the table. He rose, staying half-crouched as he moved to the doorway.

The corridor was empty, the shadows still undisturbed. He moved quickly through the east passage toward the Roman wing.

He reached the archway leading in and paused.

Someone was already inside.

A lone figure stood beneath the central spotlight of the gallery, staring up at a large sculpted Roman statue—tall, imposing, carved from pale marble.

Damian narrowed his eyes.

The lone figure must have sensed the shift in air, because he slowly turned his head and locked eyes with Damian.

Full ski mask.
Black tactical suit from throat to ankle.

Damian felt he was rather underdressed for the occasion as he took a quick look to his own outfit; A gray hoodie and blank pants.

Am I wearing too little?

The intruders upper body was built like a battering ram with thick shoulders and dense arms.

But his legs were noticeably leaner, almost mismatched. A strange silhouette.

Both of their eyes dropped, at the exact same time, to the statue’s left pinkie finger.

The deep red signet, glinting faintly under the overhead spotlight.

The masked man moved first, stepping toward the statue’s finger. The bandit reached for the ring just as Damian drove a heavy kick into his side ribs.

The force of blow made the man go crashing to the left, he was sprawled across the floor.

He took the signet ring off the cold stone finger of the statue, put it into his pocket, and ran out of the hallway turning toward the exit.

The masked bandit behind him, hissed through the material and with a shockingly speed he was already on his feet again.

Sound of footsteps followed him closely.

They ran out of the corridor

The bandit threw himself on top of Damian.

Damian fell with a great force on the floor, his knees rubbed the tile.

Damian lunged forward to push himself up, pushing away the bandit.

He bolted towards the staircase, The bandit back on his feet.

They hit the stairwell almost together. Hands grabbed. Elbows flashed. Wild swings cracked against the iron railing. Most punches missed, some only grazing the skin.

Damian shoved the ring deep into his pocket, freeing his hands. He planted his feet, turned, and prepared to finish this.

In a hurry, the thief came at him, swinging a hard punch. Damian avoided it by ducking, however, the next blow hit him right in the ​‍​‌‍​‍‌​‍​‌‍​‍‌nose.

A burst of pain shot through his skull.
His balance slipped.
He tumbled back down six steps, hitting the railing with his shoulder.

After this, when he could barely see, the criminal was the one standing over him — ready, like a coiled spring, as if he was going to release something dramatic. ​‍​‌‍​‍‌​‍​

He leaped. A full dive, aiming both feet straight onto Damian.

Damian surged upward, grabbed him midair by the torso, and redirected all that momentum sideways.

The thief slammed into the staircase wall with a sickening thud.

The masked man slid to the ground and didn’t get back up.

Damian pushed himself upright, touched his bleeding nose, and hissed softly. “Shit.”

Then he tapped his earpiece.

“I’ve taken care of this one,” he muttered, still watching the unconscious figure to make sure it stayed that way.

“Get out of there ASAP,” the handler ordered. He was a lot more tense now.

Damian wiped the blood from under his nose with the back of his hand, smacked his lips and slipped out into the ground floor entrance corridor.

It was still empty.

Far ahead, faint light flickered from the direction of the main lobby. Low mumbles.

Damian slowed his pace. He peeked around the corner into the lobby.

Several police officers stood in a tight formation under the pterosaur skeleton, scanning the area like they’d been sent in on alert.

Damian’s stomach tightened.

Why are they down here?

He pulled back slightly, thinking.

Then a bright white beam snapped across his chest.

He froze.

A security guard stood at the far end of the hall, torch raised, hand already on his radio. Damian’s face was just outside the light’s reach.

“Tem alguém aqui!” The guard barked.
(“There’s someone here!”)

“Damnit.”

Damian yanked his hood up, dragging the collar high over his jaw to shadow anything identifiable. The guard stepped forward, flashlight cutting nearer.

Damian spun and bolted.

The guard shouted, radio screeching as he relayed Damian’s direction.

The museum, moments ago a quiet tomb of artifacts, erupted into a cat and mouse chase.

Damian darted down the corridor, weaving between plinths and display cases, the beam of a second flashlight flaring somewhere behind him.

“Handler,” he hissed through his teeth, “they’ve seen me.”

“No shit, I can hear the shouting,” the handler snapped. “Get out!”

Damian breathed, cutting a corner. “Didn’t get the chance to replace the ring though.”

“Well don’t bother now,” the handlers static hissed. “What matters is you not getting caught. You’re already risking it.”

Damian was about to respond when a shape stepped out from behind a stack of crates.

The thief he’d knocked out earlier.

Mask still on. Chest heaving. One hand braced on the wall like he’d barely recovered enough to stand.

Damian stopped mid-stride. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The thief stumbled forward, limping.

Damian didn’t want another fight. He wanted a way out.

An idea flashed in his head.

The cop flashlights started to leak into the hallway behind him.

The thief lunged with a sloppy right hook. Damian dodged, slid the fake ring into the man’s vest pocket in the same motion, and pivoted behind him.

He didn’t sweep the leg this time. Instead, he kicked sharply at the thief’s heel from behind, an upward jab to the Achilles tendon.

The thief’s ankle rolled violently.

The man cried out, collapsing sideways.

He hit the floor at an ugly angle, he was holding his ankle in pain and was unable to get up by himself, let alone running.

Perfect.

Flashlights flooded the hallway.

Damian put his hand on the thief’s collar and dragged him to the open and then quickly disappeared behind the corner.

“Ali! Suspeito no chão!”
(“There! Suspect down!”)

“Está ferido—mãos à vista! Agora!”
(“He’s injured—hands visible! Now!”)

“Verifiquem os bolsos dele!”
(“Check his pockets!”)

Damian crouched behind a statue plinth, listening.

A beat. Then:

“Senhor… ele tem o anel!”
(“Sir… he’s got the ring!”)

The handler said frantically. “You got caught?!”

Damian moved towards the way he came. “Never, i’ll explain in a bit.”

“Just get out man.”