Silently, he stole across the rooftops, as fast as his legs would carry him. They would realize what he had done, and soon they would be after him. But he was ready. He had been in this situation countless times before, and they had never caught him. And maybe that was why he felt so empty.
The man danced past rooftop obstacles, sliding under pipes and launching over steam vents, all with carefully practiced silence and precision. He ducked behind a rooftop access door and caught his breath. He reflected upon the beautiful prize he had captured that night, on the plan that went off without a single hitch, on the guards who had acted just as he had predicted, and on the months of planning that were finally coming to fruition. But as he turned all of these things over in his mind, a different feeling came over him. He began to wonder to himself weather or not he would be better off not having gone through with the heist at all. True, he lived for the experience; his schemes were his whole life, recently he was consumed by a sense of futility. Every time he went out, he could execute his plans flawlessly, without any consequence, without any fulfillment. The police could never apprehend him; he knew this not just as a boast but also as a fact. He was without challenge, and so, he was also without enjoyment.
As he reflected upon those truths, that night on the chance rooftop, the man became lost in him, and failed to notice the police helicopter hovering high above his head. It shone its brilliant spotlights in every direction, desperately searching for a man it could not find. But then, suddenly, on that very rooftop! Movement! Something moved!
The man dived out of the way just as the searchlights were about to close him in. He took off as fast as he could possibly run, barreling endlessly through the moonless darkness. He swung around an upstanding pole and came to hide just beneath an old water tower. This was not something he had planned for. This was never meant to happen. This was a serious endangerment to both his plan, and his life. And this… was exiting. The man's heart beat loudly in his ears as he watched the helicopter scan his surroundings, and finding no trace of the mysterious figure it thought it saw, returned to its normal patrol route.
As the bright searchlights gradually faded into the distance, the man relaxed his guard again. For the very first time in his life, he had allowed them to see him, and as a consequence, he knew the thrill of the chase. He felt drunk on this new sensation, a primal and confused state where the only thing he was sure of was himself. He adored the feeling. It brought his mind back years in time, to when he had first committed himself to crime. He remembered the thrills, and though his adrenaline rush lasted only a few minutes, he knew he wanted more.
The man took stock of himself. He pulled the night's prize from the pocket of his shoulder bag, and set it on the edge of the roof. What did a gemstone like this mean to him? He had acquired a multitude of gems and precious stones throughout his life, and indeed each time he had done so perfectly. No other person, no other human could proclaim to have stolen as much as he had, in quantity or in value. Nor could anyone fault his form, his tactics or his practice. He was the greatest criminal in the world, a title none could contest. And now, he was hungry for even more. The simple rush of a chase would not affect him twice, this he knew. He wanted to be hunted, to participate in a game at which every moment he would be dogged and chased and tested. He wanted a chase whose thrills would pursue him his whole lifetime. And he knew how to achieve this end.
He had never left clues before. Never any sort of evidence that would incriminate him in any way; not even something that could be used to locate him. Before that day he was like a ghost, a perfectly clean criminal, leaving nothing behind and taking only what he came for. He knew that to have his chase, he would have to make himself a target. But he wouldn't be reckless, or rash, or impatient. That would provide a window to his actual capture and, in turn, the end of his fun. He would construct the perfect crime. And to do so, he would need to raise the stakes from mere theft. And he would need one other thing: contestants.
With that, he casually kicked the precious stone off the rooftop, into the alley below him, and with a renewed collectedness, evaporated into the night shadows.