The assumed profile of this dangerous six-time thief is a tall male with above-average strength and the ability to jump extraordinarily high. Any clues to his identity should be submitted immediately to the police at the number below; though his reputation has reached near super villain cat burglar status, police are confident they will be able to find the culprit behind the thefts of the most expensive items held by the richest people in the city. All six are offering a huge reward for the return of their jewels, historical artifacts, and other stolen goods, in case they are found. The decadent and eccentric Richard Heathcliff has made a statement to this master thief, "If he wants to try to come and steal from me, he just better be ready, giving the poor guy some warning."

Craig rolled his eyes and blew his blonde bangs out of his face. He straightened the newspaper with a flick of his wrist with a raised eyebrow. He was sitting in his apartment in just a pair of sweatpants, halfway between upset that they'd gotten his profile so very wrong and half amused at this blowhard millionaire who thought he could outsmart him. Standing at 5'6", he wasn't exactly what anyone would call 'tall' and frankly, he wasn't terribly strong, not in the conventional sense.

The newspaper was quickly cut into shreds, saving the article and then tacked to the nearest corkboard. Craig Renshaw's apartment resembled something out of a FBI detective novel; covered in pictures of people, places, events, valuable objects all over nearly every square inch of the walls. He had stacks of large plastic containers filled with goods, holding up his desk, acting as a coffee table. It looked like a mess, but it was all very meticulously organized by weight, value, and type of good. It wouldn't do to put the gemstones with the historical artifacts, clearly.

He quickly glanced at the pictures he'd gathered for this heist, inspecting the pilfered blueprints of the Heathcliff Manor he was intending on breaking into tonight. This… man didn't believe in keeping things locked up in banks or anything, he kept everything in his home from which he was frequently absent. He was some kind of playboy who had his own jet and a bevy of women following him at all times; Craig just so happened to be privy to a little tidbit of information on his whereabouts for the next week. Mexico was quite a distance from this humble little city. Mr. Heathcliff didn't do himself any favors by being a paparazzi walking target. Craig had pictures of several different actresses and socialites wrapped up in his arms in different states of decency on one wall. Yes, this would be too easy.

Tossing out ideas about arrogant millionaires, Craig started to push the boxes of gemstones out of his living room with a singular couch to make room. He didn't own much, save the things he'd stolen already. He had a day job teaching high school history which didn't afford him a lot, save the apartment, a very good laptop, and a broken-down car that he drove as few places as he could manage. Well, that and a lot of gadgetry he'd not mention to polite company. He sat down on the middle of the carpet and pulled his legs into a sure Lotus position, placing his palms on his knees and shutting his eyes. He straightened his back and took in a deep breath, concentrating on the muscles of his stomach and his lungs.

Focusing on clearing his mind was actually a difficult task for him, which is why he made a point of centering himself before going to do anything important. He had ever since he was a teenager, something his mother forced on him, along with a myriad of stereotypically feminine things. She had clearly wanted a girl instead of her only son, so she enrolled him in several classes she was anticipating for her daughter. Ballet, yoga, gymnastics, piano, and a begrudging love of pink were all things that carried into his late twenties, the Choi Kwang-Do classes being the only thing he managed to choose for himself. He took another deep breath and pushed his thoughts of his mother out of his mind.

His thoughts drifted to why he'd started stealing things in the first place. It happened quite by accident when introduced to a curator of a museum he'd dragged a class to; the man was a bumbling fool, handling a very ancient set of small statues from B.C.E. like a child's building blocks. Craig had relied on his oft-forgotten charm to snag them and now they were in a box, preserved very carefully, in his closet. That man probably didn't remember him or those statues now except for the furtive oral he got in his office. Oh how his students asked questions that day, 'Mr. Renshaw, are you married or dating someone?', 'Mr. Renshaw, I heard that you're gay!', and of course, 'Mr. Renshaw, you have something in your hair!' Craig couldn't remember a moment in his life where he was gladder for overpassing birds and a razor-sharp mind. The rest of the questions were ignored; no one had even been in his apartment since he started this, he was obviously not married or involved in some way.

With another mental push, all of that was out of his mind as well. He was dwelling in a state of empty-minded bliss for a moment letting the calm wash over him. He opened his sharp pink eyes and carefully unfolded his legs, moving to stand very straight and lean his head back, moving his elbows to a sharp angle with his hands pressed on his neck. Stretching like this was very important, he found out the hard way. He'd pulled a muscle one of the first times he'd snuck into a building and had to lie through his teeth and rang up a massage therapist bill like no other. Again, that oft-forgotten charm came in handy, he thought ruefully, gently stretching his shoulders over his head. The massage therapist had been sweet and cute, at least, which was more than he could say for that bumbling curator. The curator had something of a sexy accent, though; making up for his inability to shut up.

A roll of his neck gave a surprising crack of air leaving joints, knocking the massage therapist and his gentle hands out of mind rather abruptly. He spread his legs out more than shoulder width apart and leaned down to grab his ankles. Shutting his eyes and letting himself breath normally, he practiced keeping calm and still while upside-down for a moment. He'd done it enough times without worry, but it was very important to be prepared. He stretched the rest of his body without problem, feeling much lighter and very limber now.

His bed was littered with the nondescript outfight he chose for the night, tossing off his sweatpants in favor of a pair of trousers that were sturdy, but gave him all the room he needed to move. He completely bypassed any underclothing; it was too restrictive, more so than just the trousers alone and elastic didn't tend to be nice to his sensitive pale skin when climbing around on rooftops. A pair of socks were donned and his favorite boots were pulled off of the floor. They were black, leather, and laced up the front, which was a danger, but they were never going to slip and supported his ankles better than anything he'd ever found before. He laced them up very tightly, looping the laces around the open eyelets at the top like a practiced minuteman. He slipped on a lightweight, sweat-absorbing tank top and tucked the hem into his trousers before looping a thin pink belt around its belt loops. A funny little touch, anyone else might say, but it was his lucky belt, though he'd claim not to be superstitious. The final necessary touch on this ensemble was a pair of pink arm warmers, which he quickly pulled up to mid-bicep. He'd gotten into a pinch while hacking a security system from a vent and set the damn thing off by sweating on it once and he was never less careful since.

He grabbed a little bit of equipment, nothing too major. He didn't expect much of a challenge from Mr. Heathcliff's staff, nor from his house, but it didn't hurt to be prepared. He picked up his special glasses and replaced his original ones on the nightstand, flicking the settings on his thicker, but more useful glasses before placing them on his nose. This was a handy bit of equipment that he'd paid quite a lot of money for; they allowed him to see infrared and a few other useful features. He slipped the collapsible baton he kept around in case of emergencies in the sewn-in pocket on the inside of his shirt and tugged on a pair of light leather gloves.

The costume was almost pulled together; he completed it by pulling on a short, black trench coat with a heavy silver buckle in the front. He carefully picked up a mask from his dresser, it was porcelain white Mardi Gras mask with gold filigree around the eyes, ending in curved points along the cheekbones. He didn't anticipate on using it much, but just in case there was a camera he couldn't disable, or an unsuspecting witness he didn't account for. He tucked the mask into his coat and left his apartment, sure to lock the door. Time to go hail a cab…