Welcome!
In a swift turn of events, Sirius found himself in an isolated mansion—forgotten by time and politely ignored by the law—buried deep in the middle of nowhere.
He was seated in a classroom—yes, a classroom.
The walls were plastered with blueprints, floor plans, surveillance maps, and scribbled notes in at least four languages. At the front stood a massive chalkboard, already crowded with timelines and codewords in Regulus’s sharp, meticulous handwriting.
Around him sat a collection of strangers—the kind of people who had either survived too much or caused too much.
“Welcome, everyone,” Regulus said, standing at the front with his usual eerie calm. “Thank you for accepting this job. We’ll be living here—off the grid, away from the noise—for five months. We’ll train, study, and master every inch of this heist.”
“Five months?” said a broad, heavy-set man beside Sirius. “Are you mental?”
“People spend years chasing scraps for a salary they can barely survive on—and that’s the best-case scenario,” Regulus replied, unfazed. “What’s five months compared to that? I’ve been planning this for over half my life.”
Silence. Fair point
“Now,” he continued, tapping the chalkboard, “you don’t know each other, and I’d like to keep it that way. Ground rules: no names, no personal questions, and absolutely no relationships.”
He gave them a deliberate once-over. A few people snickered. Sirius barked a laugh.
“You’ll each choose a name. Something simple—cities, numbers, planets. Whatever sticks.”
“How about Lady 6 and Lady 9?” offered a woman so stunning Sirius nearly forgot how to breathe. Dark hair in tight braids, eyeliner sharp enough to draw blood, tattoos curling up her arms. Her rings caught the light. So did her piercings. She looked like she belonged on stage, not in a criminal classroom.
Next to her sat a ginger woman, with freckles dusting every inch of her skin. “Oh, I’d love that.” She said, grinning. The first woman winked in response.
Across the room, a man spoke without looking up. “That’s gonna be a problem. I can’t even remember my own phone number.” He spun a pencil between his fingers, slow and lazy. Scars and freckles marked his deep brown skin like constellations. Crooked nose. Messy dark curls. Chocolate-brown eyes.
Sirius hadn’t realized he was staring until their eyes met. He winked.
And he could swear he saw a blush rise to the man’s cheeks. Oh, he’s beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful.
“Planets, then.” someone said from behind Sirius. “I’ll be Mars. And this scarred guy can be Uranus.”
Sirius didn’t turn around, but he caught the flash of a leather jacket out of the corner of his eye. A good one. Black, fitted, rebellious. Sirius made a note: he was definitely getting one like that when this was over.
“Fuck you,” The scarred man said flatly. “I’m not Uranus.”
“What the fuck is wrong with Uranus?”
“It sounds like anus.”
Leather Jacket snorted so hard it came out as a full-blown laugh. Sirius smiled to himself.
“Why don’t we just use our first names only? It’s easier.” Sirius offered, more to the room than anyone in particular.
To his surprise, there were nods. Murmurs of agreement. Even Regulus didn’t object—but, of course, the little shit didn’t give them his name. Not that anyone expected him to. So, they just started calling him Professor. And like everything Regulus did, it fit. He had no criminal record. No registration. No passport. No ID. He hadn’t renewed a single document since he was seventeen. For all intents and purposes, he was a ghost. A very intelligent ghost.
There were seven others in the room, not counting the Black brothers.
The one behind Sirius—the shit-stirrer with the leather jacket—was Barty. Interpol’s nightmare. Wanted across Europe for 27 confirmed heists: jewelry stores, auction houses, armored trucks. His biggest hit? 434 diamonds from the Champs-Élysées. He was a shark in a swimming pool—you could swim near him, but you’d never stop watching your back. He was Regulus’s right hand. The only one who already knew the plan. He and Sirius would lead the operation inside the bank.
Beside Sirius sat Frank— built like a bouncer, dressed like a tired grad student. A prodigy with tools. The entire escape plan rested on his shoulders. First thing he ever dug was a mine in Austria. Then he figured there was more money digging up. Six fur shops, three watch dealers, and a rural credit union later—he was here.
Behind Frank was Dorcas—the rockstar. The queen of bar fights, pure hot-blooded; Broken ribs, busted teeth, track record of brawls. She was chaos on legs, and perfect for a heist.
Behind her, the scarred man: Remus. The Mozart of hacking. He’d been coding since he was six, and could disable any security system like he was brushing his teeth. Alarms. Surveillance. Digital vaults. You name it, he’d cracked it. Socially, though? He acted like the concept of conversation had just been invented.
Next to Remus were the twins—Fabian and Gideon. Ex-military. Quiet, lethal, and loyal. They’d survived war together, and looked like they could survive just about anything.
Last was the redhead—Lily. Sharp eyes, sharper tongue. Hardened optimist, and absolutely nuts. She’d been counterfeiting money since she was thirteen. Now? She is our quality control manager. Probably had a smile in one hand and a grenade in the other.
Regulus took a step back, eyes glinting. “You need to understand—when this starts, the media will be obsessed. Every person in this country will be asking, ‘What the fuck are they doing?’ But more importantly, they’ll be thinking—‘Those motherfuckers. I wish I’d thought of that first.’
“We’re not stealing anyone’s money. And for that reason alone, the public will root for us. Their support is vital. We’re heroes—until we spill a single drop of blood. One fatal mistake, one victim, and we’re no longer legends anymore. We’re just another group of bastards with guns.”
A pause.
Then: “Professor?” Lily raised her hand, deadpan.
“Yes, Lily?”
She tilted her head, smiling. “What exactly are we robbing?”
Regulus didn’t speak. Instead, he pointed toward the back of the room. Every head swiveled.
There it was.
A towering scale model of the Bank of England.
Holy fucking fuck, Sirius thought.
If Regulus was willing to go this far, then hell—he’d follow him the rest of the way.