Impressive

As Rashan made his way through the busy street, he briefly considered stopping at a restaurant. The scent of grilled lamb, cardamom, and fresh-baked flatbread drifted through the air, teasing his senses. A warm meal sounded good—comforting, even.

But then his gaze shifted to Jalil, trailing just behind him, silent and attentive.

No. The culture wouldn't allow it. Not here. Not with him.

Jalil was still just an attendant—a boy in training. Until he earned his title as a warrior, he would remain at the bottom of the social ladder. Sharing a public table with him would only invite disapproval. Even if Rashan didn't care, Jalil would. The boy had pride, and shame cuts deepest when it's silent.

So Rashan let the idea go and adjusted his path toward the estate.

The street was crowded—noisy, fluid, chaotic. Bodies brushed past, voices rose and fell, the weight of the city pressing in on all sides.

And that's when Perfect Recall stirred, not suddenly or sharply—just… passively. Like a stream catching sunlight beneath the surface. A memory gently surfaced, without being summoned.

A red-headed girl, small frame, maybe nine or ten. She had bumped into him—lightly, casually—as he passed by a spice stall. No eye contact. No hesitation. Gone in seconds.

His steps slowed.

His coinpurse.

It should've been nestled beneath the inner fold of his belt sash, secured through the bronze loop in the traditional Redguard fashion—visible but restrained, just enough to signal status without arrogance.

But now?

It was gone.

His gaze scanned forward—there. Thirty meters ahead. A small figure, red hair flickering in the sun, darting between market stalls.

Jalil—contact, east, thirty meters! Red hair, petite, slender, about nine. Move!"

Rashan had drilled operator verbiage into Jalil until it was second nature—short, sharp, and to the point. No wasted words, just what he needed to act like in his past life.

The boy didn't ask questions. He dashed after her without hesitation, cutting through the crowd with practiced agility.

As for the personal guards? There were none. Rashan had made a habit of slipping away without them. He liked the freedom, the silence.

Sure, it got him scolded now and then. But that didn't matter.

What mattered now was catching that little thief.

Jalil stopped along with Rashad, they lost her, he used his perfect recall as he studied the crowd

The moment Rashan spotted the girl, he was already moving. His body reacted before his mind finished forming the thought.

"Jalil—red hair, forty five meters north! Move!"

The boy didn't need to be told twice. His sandals scraped against the stone as he surged forward, moving like a shadow at Rashan's side. The marketplace erupted around them—voices rising, merchants stepping aside, startled citizens gasping as the pair cut through the crowd like spears through cloth.

She was fast.

The girl's small frame and lean build let her weave between bodies with impossible precision. She slipped through a group of fishmongers, ducked beneath a fruit cart, then slid between a pair of arguing nobles without so much as brushing a sleeve.

But Rashan and Jalil were predators. And she'd just stepped into their hunting grounds.

Rashan's muscles coiled and released with brutal efficiency, his breath steady. His legs pounded against the stone in perfect rhythm, and he could feel the familiar heat building in his chest—Indomitable Stamina kicking in, not a surge of energy, but the absence of fatigue.

He didn't slow. He didn't falter. He just ran.

Jalil was right behind him, teeth clenched, arms pumping. Not as fast, not as fluid—but still top-tier. The boy didn't have Rashan's perks or years of field-hardened experience, but what he had was talent—and will. If Rashan hadn't been enhanced, they might've been equals on the sprint.

A guard spotted them mid-chase. His eyes widened as he recognized Rashan—a noble running through the streets like a man possessed.

The guard didn't ask questions.

"You there—join them! After the girl!" he barked, directing another patrolman into the chase.

But it was too late.

Rashan and Jalil were already gone. The guards gave chase, but the pair outpaced them within seconds. Years of training and raw survival instinct carved into their legs—this wasn't a patrolman's pursuit.

This was a hunt.

Still, the girl was clever. She dipped into a side street, dashed beneath a hanging tapestry, then scaled a crate and vaulted over a low wall into a tighter lane. Rashan followed without hesitation, his boots scraping stone as he vaulted clean over the wall, landing hard but fluid. Jalil mirrored him a breath behind.

"She's good," Rashan muttered under his breath, eyes scanning ahead.

"She's a demon," Jalil grunted, not breaking stride.

They pressed forward—alley after alley, the noise of the market slowly falling behind them. The girl was tiring. Her steps weren't as clean now. Her head kept turning, eyes darting, looking for an escape.

She took a hard left.

That was her mistake.

The alley narrowed into a dead-end. High walls on both sides, the only exit behind her—and them.

She skidded to a stop, nearly slamming into the wall. Turned.

Eyes wide. Chest heaving. Hands clutching something tight beneath her ragged tunic.

Rashan slowed first, breath even. Jalil came up just beside him, still winded but standing tall.

They had her.

And now came the hard part.

Thieves weren't treated kindly in Redguard society. Especially not in the Forebear cities, where honor was public, and crime was personal. The Empire had brought bureaucracy, yes—but in practice, a lowborn thief stealing from a noble was still seen as a brazen insult, not just a crime.

And the girl clearly knew that.

Because just as Rashan and Jalil closed in, she made her move.

Without hesitation, she spun toward the far end of the alley—then dropped.

She dove toward a low stone opening at the base of the wall, half-hidden by a broken stack of crates and faded cloth. Rashan's eyes caught it a second too late: a runoff drain, narrow and worn, part of the ancient Yokudan flood management system—built centuries ago to channel the fierce, short rainy season's floodwaters down from the upper city and out toward the sea.

Now dry. Filthy. Forgotten.

But still open.

She slipped in like she belonged there. Her small, wiry body squirmed into the gap, bare feet vanishing into the darkness like a shadow with purpose.

Rashan and Jalil skidded to a stop just behind her. Jalil crouched, peering into the hole, squinting through the grime.

"…Unless I've suddenly learned bone magic," he muttered, "I don't think either of us are going in there."

Rashan blew out a breath, hand braced against the stone. "She shouldn't have even fit."

Jalil gave a dry chuckle. "She's got the build of a sewer rat and the guts of a smuggler. Might be part lizard."

Footsteps rang out behind them, echoing off the stone walls. Two city guards rounded the corner, panting, armor clinking with each wheezing breath.

"By the Divines—was that her?" the first one gasped, red-faced and soaked in sweat.

"Did you catch her?" the second wheezed.

Jalil didn't bother turning. "Caught a memory. She vanished into that drain like it was her family home."

One of the guards stepped up, squinting into the darkness. "Want us to try crawling in?"

Rashan gave him a flat look. "If you get stuck, I'm not digging you out."

The guard wisely took a step back.

Rashan stayed silent, still staring at the dark slit in the wall. His jaw tightened slightly, though not with anger.

She had his coin.

But more than that—she had impressed him.

Everything she'd done—how she timed the bump, vanished into the crowd, manipulated the terrain—was textbook. Not clumsy, not frantic. Clean. Calculated. Bold.

The makings of an operator.

She definitly had talent..,

He wondered if she had been trained at all?

He liked talent. Especially when it was still rough. Moldable.

"She's good," Rashan muttered under his breath.

Jalil glanced at him. "You want me to hate her, or hire her?"

Rashan didn't answer. He just kept staring into the darkness.

Stealing from him might've been the worst mistake of her life.

Or the best.

That depended on what he chose to do next.