The Code of the Thief, The Heart of the Cop

Anya's head echoed with the revelation about Kovac, the slumlord, a constant buzz beneath the daily din of police work. Rhys was more than just a ghost targeting the rich; he was carrying out a focused, nearly surgical kind of intervention grounded in a distinct, albeit illegal, moral code. It was an unsettling idea that muddled the cozy boundaries she typically stayed inside. A week later, this internal struggle became quite clear.

In the West District, Anya was visiting Maya while off duty. The neighborhood was still hustling over their landlord's unexpected and unusual display of civic duty. They passed the Oakhaven Community Center, a crucial but consistently underfunded center that provides after-school programs and assistance for low-income families, on their way to a neighborhood market. Usually, the little playground equipment was corroded and its paint was flaking. Something was different today.

New boxes containing children's painting supplies, athletic gear, many shrink-wrapped PCs, and even bags of non-perishable food were stacked close to the entryway. They were being unpacked by volunteers, who were looking happy and confused. Anya heard bits and pieces of conversation: "...just showed up this morning. Unidentified donor Nothing, no note Enough to sustain the art program for one year.

Anya saw the pattern and froze. An anonymous source revealed that an organization that helped the weak and suffered from chronic neglect had just what it needed. It resembled Rhys's signature, but instead of code, it was written in charity. She recalled him talking about the weighted scales, the Narrows. Oakhaven catered to the very community he professed to support. It struck her with unexpected force when she saw the obvious benefits, the volunteers' relief and joy, and the possibility of children personally benefiting. It wasn't abstract. This involved actual people receiving assistance in ways that were rarely possible with the city budget or her own limited efforts. The dissonance grew: the unquestionably positive result, the illicit cause.

With his senses keen and his shoulder largely healed, Rhys walked through the city's dusk hours like a whisper. Before taking any action, it was essential to conduct reconnaissance in order to identify trends, map out weak points, and gauge the pulse of the city. He was watching a low-level numbers ring tonight, operating out of a small downtown shop, taking advantage of desperate people in the shadow of gleaming office buildings. Before determining whether or not to step in, he needed to know how far it had spread.

He noticed a flash of blue coming from a shadowed nook across the street—a cop car. Something caused him to hesitate even though his instincts told him to run. Officer Petrova and her partner, Marcus, came out of the passenger side. They were responding to a different call—a disturbance at a homeless camp beneath a nearby overpass—rather than the numbers racket.

Rhys observed, unseen, intrigued. He had witnessed police officers roust the homeless on numerous occasions using abrupt commands, barely disguised contempt, and occasionally needless force. With his palm hovering close to his sidearm and his face fixed in tired impatience, Marcus appeared prepared for that approach. However, Anya stopped him by raising a hand.

She went to the man who was causing the commotion, a man who was obviously in mental distress and was yelling unintelligibly at invisible ghosts, upsetting the tenuous tranquility of the temporary camp. Anya spoke quietly, calmly, rather than yelling orders. From a distance, Rhys was unable to hear what she was saying, but he could see that she was patient and nonthreatening. The man wasn't being crowded by her. She paid attention. After waiting through a flurry of crazy accusations, she resumed speaking in the same calm, quiet voice. The man stopped ranting after a few minutes. Head in his hands, he sank onto an abandoned crate. Anya knelt close, but not too close, and carried on the conversation. After a while, she called on her radio and asked for a mobile crisis unit—not simply backup. Marcus watched in astonishment and possibly impatience, but he let her take it in stride.

Rhys observed Anya's cautious handover until the crisis unit arrived, making sure the man was handled with some dignity rather than being just bundled away. It was a little incident that was easily forgotten amid the everyday tidal wave of minor crime and sorrow in the metropolis. But Rhys found resonance in it. He saw past the "cop" designation and the uniform. In a circumstance where protocol could have called for a harsher, more straightforward response, he witnessed the same compassion he had previously seen, applied deftly and authentically. Within the confines of a system he hated, he saw the heart he had suspected was there. She became even more of a mystery and a risky element in his well planned universe.

A second message suggested a meeting, this time in an abandoned greenhouse in the old botanical gardens on the outskirts of the city. It was overgrown, forgotten, and felt like a secret world nestled between nature and decay, with moonlight shining through shattered glass panes onto tangled vines.

Anya wasted no time when Rhys emerged from the shadows of massive, dusty ferns. She said, "Oakhaven Community Center," in a forceful yet quiet voice. "The materials. Didn't that happen to you?"

Rhys cocked his head without explicitly responding. "Did the children enjoy their new paints?"

"You know they did," Anya shot back, her grudging respect mingled with rage. "Rhys, how do you defend it? Even if you give it away, breaking into someone's accounts and stealing?"

"Justify?" The moonlight caught the passion in his eyes as he took a step closer. "Officer, I don't justify. I take action. I saw a dishonest councilman embezzle millions of dollars intended for community initiatives that never come to fruition. I envision Oakhaven having a hard time staying open. I adjust. Reallocating resources is easy.

"It's theft," she demanded. "It's illegal. Laws and procedures exist.

He retorted, "Laws written by the powerful to protect their power," in a low, agitated voice. "Procedures intended to preserve the status quo, even when it is causing people to be crushed." He purposefully chose the phrase, "Your 'culture' of law is based on abstracts: rules, precedents, and property rights." My world deals with tangible realities like desperation, exploitation, and hunger. Our 'cultures' hardly communicate in the same language.

"And yours is better?" Anya contested. "A paranoid, shadowy world where you use your own code to act as a judge, jury, and executioner? When you make a mistake, what happens? Who is responsible for you?

"Accountability?" Rhys gave a low snicker. "Ask the individuals Kovac took advantage of about systemic responsibility. Ask the families that Thorne destroyed. I am responsible for the outcomes. Does the change reduce suffering? Does it reveal corruption? Does it give someone a shot at a fight that they wouldn't have otherwise? He pointed to the dilapidated greenhouse. "Whereas places like these decay, your system creates shining towers. while human beings decay. I would rather cut the rot straight.

"And what about the risk?" Anya applied pressure. "The danger of being discovered or apprehended? the danger you present to other people?" The mere fact that she was here put her in risk, she thought.

"Risk is inherent in action," in his own words. "Inaction also carries a certain amount of risk. Stability, protocol, and risk reduction are valued in your society, frequently at the expense of justice. My culture is aware that taking risks is necessary to change things—really change things. We have to endure the repercussions.

"And what about the people caught in the middle?" With hardly more than a whisper, Anya inquired. "Like me?"

Heavy and intimate, the question lingered in the air. Rhys's face softened almost imperceptibly as he gazed at her. "That," he said, "is the variable I didn't anticipate."