At eleven, the kitchen lights dimmed further, the hallway brightened, and the smart lock on Marco’s bedroom door clicked. It whispered open, then shut. The downstairs camera sent an innocuous ping that was routed to their phones: A slow movement in the pantry and an unrecognized device nearby. His uncle’s silhouette stiffened against the blinds.
A minute later, a low conversation slipped from ceiling speakers in the dining room: two male voices negotiating inventories, almost bored. “Take watches, tray, and then office files,” one murmured. Another chuckled. “Cash first.” Marco throttled volume to a rumor, enough to crawl under one’s skin without proving itself real.