Chapter Five: Catch Me If You Can
1071 Words
Celine’s POV
National Vault Museum, 1:03 a.m.
The vault floor was too quiet.
No backup. No sirens. Just me — in black, armed, wired, and heart pounding like I wasn’t here to end this.
But I was.
This wasn’t about taunting messages or rooftop dances.
This was the real job.
An artifact worth ₱9.6 billion was being moved tonight — a pre-colonial gold regalia so rare it hadn’t seen daylight since the dictatorship fell.
Perfect target.
Perfect trap.
And I knew he’d show.
I found him in Gallery 6.
Standing under glass skylight. Spotlighted. Calm.
Ares.
Dark hoodie, half-zipped. Gloves already on. The case behind him cracked open like it bowed to him. And on the pedestal?
Empty.
Too late.
But he turned before I could speak — like he knew I was behind him.
“You’re early,” he said, like it was a date.
“I’m armed,” I answered.
“I know.”
He tossed the artifact — in its velvet pouch — from one hand to the other like a toy. Testing me.
I pulled the trigger.
Click.
Nothing.
Safety still on.
And he smiled. “You didn’t come here to kill me.”
My voice dropped. “Don’t tempt me." I lunged.
Fist to his shoulder, spinning him hard against the wall.
He grunted, shoved me back, but not hard enough to hurt.
He never hit first.
I did.
Roundhouse to his ribs — blocked. My elbow slammed toward his jaw. He caught it, held it for a beat too long.
“You’re slowing down,” he said, breathless.
I yanked my arm free. “You’re full of shit.”
He ducked under my next swing, swept my leg, and I crashed to the floor with a sharp gasp.
But he didn’t run.
He didn’t even move.
He knelt beside me, breath ragged, mask pushed halfway up.
“You okay?” he asked.
That broke me.
“You just stole from the government, and you’re asking if I’m okay?!”
His voice dropped. “I’d never hurt you, Celine.”
“You already did.”
And before I could blink — I pulled the second knife from my boot and pressed it to his chest.
Right over his heart.
We both froze.
His breath hitched.
Mine did too.
“Do it,” he said quietly.
But he didn’t flinch.
Didn’t grab my wrist.
Didn’t move.
Because he knew I wouldn’t.
And I hated him for being right.
Footsteps. Distant. Alarms finally catching up.
Ares looked toward the door, then back to me.
“You should go.”
“You’re the thief.”
He placed the pouch in my hand — slowly, gently.
“I didn’t come here for the gold.”
Then he disappeared into the shadows.
Again.
Leaving me with the artifact.
And a knife still shaking in my grip.
1:37 a.m. — Museum perimeter
The artifact was still in my hand.
My fingers wouldn’t unclench around it.
I should’ve radioed it in. Called for a sweep team. Alerted the command post that the billion-peso relic was safe, secured, untouched.
But I couldn’t move.
Because I didn’t win.
I didn’t take him down.
He let me catch him.
And then he handed over the prize like it meant nothing.
Like I was the only thing that mattered.
I replayed the fight in my head as I stood under the rain in the service exit alley. His breathing. His voice. That look in his eyes when I held the blade to his chest.
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t push me.
Didn’t kiss me.
Didn’t run.
He surrendered — but not to the law.
To me.
And I don’t know what scared me more — the thought that he knew I wouldn’t hurt him…
or the fact that he was right.
By the time the unit arrived, I had the pouch locked in a case and my expression clean.
Agent Romero’s voice came through the comms.
“Celine. How the hell did you get in first? Where’s the thief?”
I looked down at the blade still tucked in my palm.
Gone. No blood. No prints. Just silence.
“He got away,” I said.
A lie.
And the truth.
“Did he take anything?”
Another pause.
My voice barely rose above a whisper.
“No. I have it.”
But that wasn’t true either.
Because the real thing he came for?
He took it with him.
My breath. My edge.
My certainty.
I should’ve ended it tonight.
But I didn’t.
And the next time we meet…
One of us will bleed.
And it won’t be him.
2:08 a.m. — Agency Holding Room
The artifact was locked away.
The report was typed and turned in.
The bruises from the fight were hidden under my jacket sleeves. Not even Romero noticed.
I made sure of it.
Because if anyone looked too closely, they’d ask the one question I didn’t want to answer.
Why didn’t you take the shot?
Romero stood across from me, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like he knew something was off.
“He got that close to you… and you let him slip again?” he asked.
“He was fast,” I said evenly. “Smart. I recovered the target. That’s the win.”
“You think that’s enough?”
“I think I could’ve died tonight.”
He paused.
I stared back, unblinking.
Then he sighed and stepped back. “You’re slipping, Navarro. Whether you want to admit it or not.”
“I’m not,” I said.
Lie.
Clean.
Practiced.
He nodded once and left the room.
I stayed in the silence a few seconds longer.
Long enough to feel the adrenaline wearing off.
Long enough to feel the ache in my ribs from when he caught me mid-fall.
Long enough to remember the way his fingers curled against mine when he placed the pouch in my hand.
Like he wasn’t giving it up.
Like he was giving me something.
And I hate him for it.
Because somewhere in the space between the punches and the look in his eyes…
I started to doubt whether vengeance would be enough.
But I have to believe it will be.
Because if I don’t — if I let this turn into anything else — then I’ve already lost.
And that’s one thing I refuse to be:
The girl who let her ghost get away twice.
- Writer
