A/N: Okay, my second AnN fic. I may delete my other one because this one is a bit better. As always, please read and review to let me know you're on the Nadja fandom! Haha. This is a Keith-centric fic, describing his first robbery, and the people who supported him. He is somewhere between 16 to 17 years old. The writing is in first person pov.

I sat on the edge of my bed with my head in my hands, dripping cold sweat. My body was shaking uncontrollably—I hadn't expected this, I had expected myself to be more self-controlled and relaxed. I suddenly grabbed a ruffled sheet of paper from my shabby night-table—its edges were torn, stained with my sweat, and the writing on it had faded because of my continual process of folding and unfolding. My mind was blank; I thought I had booted the map into my brain, but I was wrong—I was so nervous that I could hardly remember half of it. A couple of my best friends had gone and investigated Boudreaux's mansion to draw a map of it. I skimmed through it again and again.

That's the main entrance, and on the south of that is the dining room…the master bedroom is upstairs right next to the staircase…

"Keith!"

Two knocks.

I heard a low hiss by the window, and a hollow knock of the windowpane. I tentatively got up and shuffled over to the window, then rested my arms on the wooden windowsill. The cold temperature had sunken into the wooden block—the moment I laid my hands onto the surface, a shiver ran down my spine. I slowly pushed the window open.

"Are you ready?" said a man whose face was streaked with dirt. He was holding a lamp in his hands, and the small flame inside made my azure eyes squint.

"I'm nervous, Jacques," I said in an honest tone, "I'm shaking all over."

"You'll be fine," my friend said, smiling confidently, "You've got the blood of a thief running in your veins. A great one."

I shuddered, and laughed weakly. "Stop it."

Jacques drew a watch from his pocket glanced at it. "Anyway, we haven't got time for chit-chat now. Everything's perfect. The coast is clear. You can get dressed in the storage room. I'll take your clothes with me. After you've done your thing, straight to my house."

"Je sais, je sais."

My friend smiled. "I'm counting on you. You'll soon be a hero!"

"I'm not doing this so I can become a hero. I'm ju-"

"Je sais, je sais," he mimicked.

We both sniggered.

"Okay, climb out through the window."

I stuck my leg out of the window, and did the same thing with the other. I leaped out with a single push and pulled the window shut silently.

This is it, I thought as I ran through the streets with my trusted companion, in a moment I'm going to transform into a villain, a criminal, a thief.

"Hurry up," whispered Jacques as he pushed me into the storage room in the alleyway. It was used by the people of the shoe shop we worked at—to store leather, wooden heels, and so on so forth. He blew the lamp to turn it off, just in case someone was near.

In a brief moment he was standing face to face with the soon-to-be thief—"The Black Rose".

We had both decided on the name; it was odd but the meaning was perfect. A black rose resembled vengeance to a foe, while it symbolised death of an old habit and thus, rebirth.

"Wow, you look like you just popped out from a suspense novel," he giggled as he gazed at me, the black thief, masked, with a feathered cape.

"Quel petit chapeau agréable!" he remarked.

"Shut up," I murmured.

Jacques' amused face suddenly vanished and turned serious. He gave my arm a squeeze, and frowned.

"One mistake and you're dead meat. Do be careful. Remember, my house is a bit far from here, but it's there if you keep going straight, right along that road," he said earnestly.

I bet anyone could see the flickering nervousness in my masked blue eyes. I exhaled deeply to calm myself.

"I'm going."

"Good luck. You're doing this to save us, the common people. Keep that in mind."

I watched my friend scurry away, carrying a cloth bag which was filled with my clothes.

I swivelled around and stepped out into the night.

A blood curdling scream reverberated around the hall.

"He really is here! The villain! The Black Rose-"

I had already sent a small card of notice with a bouquet of crimson roses a few days before.

I agilely ran through the corridor, and barged into the master bedroom right beside the staircase. Yes, it was here—the jewellery box. I had already snuck in at night the day before to make sure of its place, after I had sent the notice. My gloved hands fumbled for the key of the jewellery box—I had made a copy of it before. I let out a sigh of relief inside when the lock clicked. The idiot didn't think of changing or adding the lock, after all. I smirked when I saw the pile of scintillating jewels lying in the gold-plated box.

Swiftly, I threw in handfuls of jewels into my small cloth satchel, one after another.

By the time the police had come, I was already leaping out of the second storey. I had been practising jumping down from a certain height; it was one of my many hidden talents.

"Stop!"

I heard a number of voices from angry men. I knew that as the stealing escalated, the time would come when I'd have to face them with violence. I'll have to practise martial arts, I thought, laughing to myself.

I dashed through the Parisian streets and returned to the road where I had started from. All I needed to do now was to run along the street at full speed, just like Jacques had said. But to make sure I don't get caught easily, I took the long way around, avoiding the main road and using the uptown streets.

It was thrilling. Sure, I felt so nervous that I was about to wretch in the gutters, but my heart beat in my throat in a wave of pure excitement. And I wasn't even trembling and anxious when I was stealing, like I had been before! Everything went so smoothly and naturally, lead by my own instinct. Why was this? The thought of myself being excited about robbery made my stomach sick with black guilt.

Her auburn hair cascaded past her shoulders and her grey eyes were locked on her prey—she was attractive, and made heads of men sitting nearby snap toward her. Her footsteps clicked as they hit the floor of the pub in a soothing rhythm.

Meanwhile, I sat on a scruffy seat, staring at my glass of beverage. I watched bubbles form on the sides of the glass, then float up to the surface and disappear.

Suddenly, I felt a woman's lips pecking my cheek, and winced. I turned my head around to see a young girl that I was quite familiar with—she sat next to me comfortably, her elbow rested on the counter.

"Oh. Francesca," I said in a monotonous tone.

She displayed a coy smile on her face. From the corners of my eyes, I could see that her spine-chilling grey eyes were locked onto me. Her face was eye-catching—her nose was somewhat thin and glided down her face in a straight way and her eyelashes were so long they cast shadows on her high cheekbones—complimented by her slender figure. She would have been perfect but for her garish clothing.

She leant in and whispered into my ear:

"Are you coming tonight? I've been worried about you; you haven't come for a fortnight."

I could hear the tone of mischief hidden in her voice, but decided to ignore it.

I shook my head.

"I'm sorry. I'm busy these days."

I actually didn't know what I was busy about, but noted that I was probably exhausted from planning and carrying out such a great theft. A week had passed since then and I was still able to hear people gossiping about "The Black Rose robbery"—I wondered if they were ever going to get tired of talking about the same subject. Whenever I heard myself being used in a conversation, my heart would jump—it had only been my first robbery, and I was scared of being arrested there on the spot. At times like these I wish people weren't so garrulous.

"I miss you Keith, I don't even feel like sleeping with other men," she grumbled.

I let out a short, derisory laugh.

"Mais c'est votre travail, Francesca," I said, frowning. I then immediately regretted letting those words out of my mouth. She hadn't a choice, after all.

She sighed, flicking a lock of her auburn hair from her face. "Je sais."

A moment of silence passed between us. I wish I could be alone, I thought, and just when I did, Francesca got up and laid her hand on my shoulder to tell me she was leaving, as if she had read my mind. I was always glad she wasn't too clingy—many of the girls I had come to know either clung on to me, or loathed my aberrant behaviour and morose manner, which I disliked back. The fact that I was reticent about my personal life didn't help either. I was better off at a brothel.

A few minutes passed, and I sat there in deep thought. I kept repeating that night again and again in my mind—the frightened face of Boudreaux, the barks of the policemen, and the thrill of someone chasing after me. It all came naturally, as if I had been a thief before, and was always going to be one. It shocked me that I had actually felt excited, instead of feeling scared stiff or some sort of guilt complex.

As if to take Francesca's place, Henri strode over and sat down next to me. He signalled me to move to the back of the pub with him, to make sure no one was listening.

"Congratulations, Keith," he said, and gave me a little pat on my shoulder, "I know I should've come earlier but I had to go to Rome the day just after your, well, you know... Well, anyway, did my map come in handy?"

"Yes it did," I replied. He smiled, showing a wobbly line of white teeth.

"Did you know that we're to go to London? As a part of our apprenticeship?" he then asked.

"No! What? But my whole family lives there," I said, feeling astounded.

He chuckled. "They won't notice you at all. You've changed a lot since you first came here...you looked like a child of nobility then, but now, anyone can tell you're one of us."

His reassurance was not enough.

"If they happen to see you and realise that it was you...do you think they'd want you back?"

I shrugged helplessly. "I don't think so. They're probably relieved that I'm gone. After all, I was the black sheep of the family,"

"Very true, I can just imagine that," he said. "Anyway, I didn't come here to ask you about that. Something of more importance."

I gave him a questioning look. He leant in and placed his hands on the table, and whispered:

"There's a crook called Logan Richmond. He holds fake charities and collects money for himself...but nobody knows the truth. Master says we're going to set out for London in a couple of months. Logan Richmond lives there. What do you think? I know you want a break from all this, since it's only been a week, but keep that in mind."

I did want a break, but agreed to the idea. But what could I say? I knew that I was soon going to become a full-time criminal—I could feel it pulsing in my veins.

Forgive me, Mother, but isn't this what you wanted all along?