All Things Are Balanced

I take my time walking home.

Not because I enjoy the walk—I don't—but because time means nothing to me, and arriving early, late, or not at all makes no difference.

The streets are as they always are—shops, café, bookstores. I have them all memorized. The bakery on the corner burns its first batch every morning, and the owner curses under his breath as he scrapes charred croissants into the trash. The newspaper stand guy folds the corners of the pages when he's bored, leaving odd little creases like tiny bookmarks in the headlines. The woman at the fruit stall gives discounts based on whether or not she had a good dream the night before.

It's all routine. It's all predictable.

Then, the universe decides to be annoying.

A dog.

A tiny, scruffy white thing, standing in the middle of the road, staring blankly ahead as a car barrels toward it at full speed.

People on the sidewalk gasp. Someone screams. The driver? Oblivious.

The dog? Just standing there, contemplating existence.

I sigh. Loudly. Dramatically.

Then, I blink.

Time stops.

The car is frozen mid-motion, wheels barely touching the pavement. The people's mouths are open mid-scream, their expressions frozen in exaggerated horror. A pigeon that had been flapping nearby is caught mid-air, wings stiff like a bad video game glitch. Even the wind is still, the air thick with something unnatural.

The dog's fur is stuck in place, looking like a taxidermy project gone wrong.

I walk over, pick up the tiny idiot, and step back onto the sidewalk. Its body is warm in my arms, heart a steady rhythm against my hand. I can feel its confusion, but confusion requires thought, and thought requires time. Right now, there is no time.

Blink.

Time resumes.

The car rushes past, tires skidding slightly as the driver suddenly notices the road ahead. The pigeon flaps away, the people on the sidewalk let out a collective breath, and the woman who screamed frowns, as if trying to understand why nothing happened.

The dog stares at me. I stare back.

It wags its tail once, then licks my hand before scurrying off into the crowd like it hadn't just been seconds away from becoming a stain on the pavement.

Crisis averted.

Good deed of the day? Done. Time to go home.

Except—

I stop.

In the window of a jewelry store, a gold bracelet gleams under the light.

I tilt my head. That's nice. I want it.

Inside, the shopkeeper is busy. A customer is waving her hands, angrily complaining about something. I don't need to hear the conversation to know what's happening. Her order was wrong. She's demanding a refund. The shopkeeper is trying not to roll his eyes.

The bracelet sits there, untouched. Defenseless.

Then, I blink.

The bracelet is no longer in the display.

I keep walking, the weight of it resting against my skin, hidden beneath my collar.

No one saw.

As always.

Saving a life. Stealing a bracelet. Balance. The universe must remain fair.

Or at least, that's what I tell myself.

I take the long way home, weaving through the streets, the bracelet cold against my wrist. The weight of it lingers in my mind—something that shouldn't be mine, but now is.

A street musician plays the violin on the corner, the notes bright and sharp against the air. A small crowd has gathered, coins clattering into the open case at his feet. He plays with his eyes closed, lost in the sound.

I pause. Listen.

It's nice.

The kind of sound that makes people feel things.

Not me, but people.

I reach into my pocket, feel the few crumpled bills I took from some guy's back pocket earlier—nothing major, just a small adjustment to fate—and drop them into the violin case.

The musician doesn't notice. But the old woman standing nearby does. She gives me an approving nod, as if I've just done something noble.

I keep walking.

Balance, after all.

Then, I hear it.

A sharp gasp. A shuffle of movement. The unmistakable sound of feet slapping against pavement—running.

I turn my head just in time to see a man yank a phone from a woman's hand. She had been recording something, probably the musician, maybe the street itself—who cares? But now she's frozen in shock, mouth open, fingers still curled as if the device is there.

It isn't.

It's in the hands of a guy who's already bolting down the street.

The woman stumbles forward. "Hey! Someone—!"

She won't catch him. No one will.

Except me.

I sigh. Loudly.

Then, I move.

The thing about people who snatch and run? They're predictable. They rely on speed and panic, counting on the fact that no one will react fast enough.

But I'm not people.

I cut through a side alley, step onto the curb, and wait.

Three… two… one—

The snatcher rounds the corner at full speed, eyes darting back to check if anyone's chasing him. He doesn't see me.

Until it's too late.

I step forward, plant my foot, and twist.

My elbow connects with his ribs. Hard.

The force sends him staggering, tripping over his own feet. The phone flies from his grip, bouncing on the pavement.

I don't look at him. I don't care.

I bend down, pick up the phone, and walk back the way I came.

The woman is still there, eyes wide, hands shaking.

I hold the phone out. "Yours."

She blinks. "I—thank you! That was incredible! How did you—"

I don't wait for her to finish.

She reaches for the phone, and as she does, I let my fingers brush against her bag. A slight shift, a gentle tug—barely a whisper of movement.

She doesn't notice.

Her wallet slips into my hand as easily as breathing.

She gets her phone back.

I get… well. Compensation.

She stares at me, eyes bright with gratitude. "You're a hero!"

I glance down at the wallet now tucked into my sleeve.

Yeah.

Something like that.

I turn and walk away, smiling to myself—

—and then I hear someone behind me.

"That was kinda sick."

I stop. Sebastian.

Slowly, I turn my head.

He just stands there, watching me.

All black outfit. Black hoodie. Black ripped jeans. Black boots. Black hair falling over his sharp, he got a handsome face actually.

His hands are tucked into his pockets, expression unreadable, like he couldn't care less about anything—but his dark eyes are focused on me, interested.

"Didn't know you could fight," he says casually.

I blink at him. "Didn't know you cared."

He snorts. "I don't." Then, after a pause, "But that was cool."

I glance at his hoodie. The band logo is one I recognize—emo, broody, dramatic.

Nirvana.

He's one of those types. Probably listens to songs about darkness and heartbreak while staring out of windows when it rains.

I raise an eyebrow. "You stalking me?"

He shrugs. "I was here first."

I tilt my head. "You just stand in alleyways, then?"

"Sometimes." His lips twitch slightly, almost like a smirk.

I don't know what to say to that.

He studies me for another second before adding, "Sebastian."

I blink. "What?"

"That's my name."

"Oh." I know.

He watches me a moment longer, then says, "See you around, hero."

And just like that, he walks off.

I frown.

That was weird.

But also…

I glance at the stolen wallet in my sleeve.

…kind of fun.