It started on a blistering Los Angeles afternoon, the kind where the heat rises off the sidewalks like a mirage and every street performer is half-convinced today might finally be the day Hollywood notices them. Jeremy’s palms were sweaty around his deck of cards, but he kept smiling through it—because magicians aren’t allowed to show fear, not even when the only sound in their tip jar was four dollars in loose change rolling around like lonely prisoners.

“Excuse me!” he called out to a couple walking by the open-air mall. “Would you like to see something magical?”

They didn’t even look at him. Just kept walking. The woman lifted her iced coffee to her lips as if he were part of the scenery—no more important than the palm trees bending under the hot wind.

“This is so whack, man,” Melvin groaned from behind him. Melvin slumped on their battered speaker box, wiping sweat from his forehead. “We’ve been out here for hours. Hours. And we’ve made four bucks. Four.”

“It’s a slow day,” Jeremy said, though even he didn’t fully believe it. “Every magician goes through slow days. Julius Dein probably had slow days too.”

Melvin snorted. “Dude. Julius Dein wasn’t standing on a sidewalk in Burbank asking strangers to pick a card. He was busy going viral.”

Just as Melvin said it, he gasped and slapped Jeremy’s shoulder. “Bro—BRO—did you see his new stick-dog trick? Look at this! It’s insane!”

He shoved his phone into Jeremy’s face. On the screen, Julius Dein smiled at the camera, somehow managing to look both mischievous and effortlessly cool.

“What’s up guys? Julius Dein here—catch me at the 2022 Las Vegas Magic Convention! Tickets in bio!”

Jeremy froze. Melvin froze. The entire world seemed to freeze.

“He’s going,” Jeremy whispered.

“He’s going,” Melvin echoed.

“We HAVE to go.”

“We CAN’T go. Tickets are like—”

They checked.

“Three hundred dollars?” Melvin yelped. “Three hundred EACH? And we still gotta fly to Vegas?!”

Jeremy clenched his fist around his deck. “We can make it happen. We just need to stay positive.”

“What we need,” Melvin muttered, “is a super rich guy to walk by and tip us six hundred bucks—right about… now.”

As if summoned by cosmic sarcasm, a man stepped into view. Mid-forties, perfect haircut, tailored suit, polished shoes that gleamed like mirrors. And on his wrist—Jeremy noticed instantly—sat a luxury Cartier watch, glinting like a tiny sun.

Melvin whispered, “He looks loaded.”

Jeremy swallowed. “Sir? Would you like to see a magic trick? It’ll only take sixty seconds.”

The man checked his watch. “You’ve got sixty.”

Jeremy’s heart kicked into magician mode. His voice grew smooth, confident, showman-perfect.

He cut the cards. Asked the man to choose one. Sent it back into the deck. Made a show of shuffling—flicking cards through the air, tapping them against his knuckles like a Vegas pro. He whispered the magic words, “Alakazam, alakazoom,” with theatrical flair—

And then revealed the card.

The man barely blinked. “Decent. Didn’t blow my mind.”

Jeremy’s smile faltered.

“But…” the man added, “good news. That wasn’t your real trick, was it?”

Jeremy’s grin returned. “Melvin?”

Melvin lifted the man’s coffee cup—except it was empty. Jeremy tapped the man’s shoulder—

And the coffee reappeared, steaming hot, in Melvin’s other hand.

The man reeled back. “How did you—when did you—” He laughed, shaking his head. “Okay. That one was good. Very good.”

“That’s magic,” Jeremy said, forcing confidence he didn’t really feel.

“Glad my watch didn’t disappear,” the man joked. “It’s worth over four grand.”

Jeremy’s eyes flicked downward. Four thousand dollars. Sitting right there. inches away. Reflecting the sun.

He expected a nice tip—enough to put a dent in the Vegas dream.

Instead… clink.

One dollar.

Melvin watched the man walk away. “This guy is wearing a four thousand dollar watch and he tipped us ONE DOLLAR.”

“It’s more than we had before,” Jeremy said weakly.

Melvin stared at the dollar like it had personally insulted him. “Bro, that trick was worth WAY more than a buck. Honestly? We should’ve kept the watch.”

Jeremy’s stomach twisted. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” Melvin hissed. “We literally make things disappear for a living. We would be GREAT thieves.”

“Absolutely not,” Jeremy snapped. “We’re magicians. Not criminals. Your actions always come back to you.”

Melvin held up his hands. “Fine. Whatever. I was joking. Kinda.”

But Jeremy didn’t miss the change in Melvin’s eyes—an idea had rooted itself deep, growing fast.

The sun lowered. Jeremy packed up.

“I’m heading home,” Jeremy said. “Ramen’s coming over tomorrow, so I’ll see you the day after. Promise me you won’t do anything dumb.”

Melvin smiled too quickly. “Of course not, bro. What would I do?”

Jeremy gave him one last look—the uneasy kind—then left.

The moment Jeremy rounded the corner, Melvin’s grin broke open into something wild.

He stayed.

He performed tricks for kids, for tourists, for a grandmother with a sweet smile and a grandson eager for wonder.

He borrowed the kid’s backpack. Filled it with water. Shook it like a washing machine. Whispered magic words—then revealed the books inside perfectly dry.

The grandmother clapped. “You are AMAZING,” she said.

“I try,” Melvin said casually, adrenaline thrumming through him.

“You made our day!” she said.

She leaned in to hug him.

Melvin’s hand moved like a shadow.

A flick.

A slide.

A whisper of metal.

Her watch—gone.

She didn’t notice. She walked away smiling.

Melvin stood there, pulse racing, a stolen watch cold and heavy in his palm.

He whispered, “I could get used to this.”

The watch was pawned within an hour.

He told the pawnbroker it belonged to his grandmother. He laughed at the easy lies spilling off his tongue. He walked out holding $600 in crisp bills—enough for two MagicCon tickets.

And the thrill…

The thrill felt better than any applause.

By the next day, Melvin had stolen three more watches, two necklaces, and a designer wallet. The pawn shop owner didn’t question him—yet.

His pockets grew fat.

His magic tricks sharper.

His lies smoother.

And when Jeremy finally returned two days later, Melvin greeted him like nothing was wrong.

“Bro!” Melvin threw an arm around him. “MagicCon is HAPPENING. I got us! Look—”

He dumped wads of cash into Jeremy’s lap.

Jeremy froze.

“Melvin,” he whispered. “Where did you get this?”

Melvin smiled too easily. “I just… got lucky.”

“No.” Jeremy’s voice cracked. “You STOLE this.”

Melvin didn’t deny it.

Jeremy stood up, horrified. “Give it back.”

“I can’t,” Melvin said. “If I give stuff back, they’ll KNOW I stole it.”

“You’re digging your own grave,” Jeremy said, voice breaking. “I can’t be part of this. I can’t even be your friend if you keep doing this.”

Jeremy walked away.

Melvin watched him go—jaw tight, heart pounding with something ugly.

But the hunger was stronger than guilt.

He wasn’t stopping.

The first time Melvin told the “sick grandma” story, he didn’t even stutter.

The pawn shop smelled like dust and metal and regret, the way most pawn shops in downtown L.A. do. Fluorescent light buzzed over racks of guitars and TVs, old PlayStations, and engagement rings that never made it to the altar. Behind the counter stood Randy, a middle-aged guy with tired eyes and a Dodgers cap that had seen better seasons.

Melvin pushed open the door, bell jangling overhead, a plastic grocery bag stretched with weight hanging from his fist.

“Can I help you, kid?” Randy asked.

Melvin dumped the bag gently on the counter. Jewelry poured out in a glittering rush: watches, bracelets, necklaces, rings. Some gold, some silver, some with stones that looked like they might be real.

“Yeah,” Melvin said, voice dropping to that careful, practiced tone he used when he wanted people to believe him. “I’m hoping to pawn these.”

Randy’s eyebrows climbed. “All that?”

Melvin gave him a sad little smile. “My grandma… she just found out she has stage four lung cancer. Her words, not mine. She, uh, told me to sell her stuff so we can help with the hospital bills.” He swallowed for effect. “She didn’t want to, but y’know… treatment in America isn’t cheap.”

Something flickered in Randy’s eyes. Sympathy. Worry. Hesitation.

He picked up a watch, turned it in the light. Checked the back. “You said these were hers?”

“Yeah. Some were my grandpa’s first, but he passed away,” Melvin said easily. “She held onto them till now.”

Randy studied him a second longer, then shrugged. “Sorry to hear that, man.”

Melvin relaxed.

He watched Randy pick through the jewelry with careful hands, testing clasps, squinting at stamps, weighing metal in his palm. The shop was quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioner and a faint radio playing something old and slow.

Just as Randy opened a drawer to grab his scale, the doorbell chimed again.

“Afternoon, Randy,” a voice said.

Melvin stiffened.

The man who walked in wore a badge on his belt, a gun on his hip, and an easy familiarity, like this wasn’t his first time here. He carried a folder in one hand.

“Hey, Sam,” Randy said. “Busy day?”

“Busier than I’d like.” Officer Sam tapped the folder. “Record number of robberies in the last twenty-four hours. Department wants me to keep you supplied.”

Melvin’s mouth went dry.

“What’s that?” he forced out.

Sam glanced at him, then at Randy. “Some people bring stolen stuff to pawn shops. I give Randy a list of serial numbers and details. If something pops, he calls us. Helps us get people their property back.”

Randy chuckled like this was old news. “Just a precaution. Don’t worry about it.”

No, Melvin thought. Worry about it.

His heart hammered as Sam handed over the list. Randy flipped it open, scanning. On the counter, one of the watches glinted accusingly.

“Any suspicious activity lately?” Sam asked.

“Nah,” Randy said. “Just same old.”

“Good,” Sam said, leaning an elbow on the counter. “Crime’s been weird lately. Flashy stuff, jewelry, watches, phones. Thieves think they can make a killing flipping it fast.”

Melvin could feel sweat trickling down his back.

Randy picked up one of the watches from Melvin’s pile, checked the back, then glanced quickly at the paper.

Melvin held his breath.

For a second, Randy’s face tightened. Then he sighed, smirked, and shook his head. “Just messin’ with you, kid.”

Melvin exhaled so hard he almost sagged.

“These aren’t on the list,” Randy said. “You’re good.”

Sam snapped his fingers, grinning. “Got you again, huh?”

Randy pushed the folder under the counter. “You know I gotta keep you entertained somehow.”

Sam looked at Melvin. “You look like you almost had a heart attack.”

Melvin forced a laugh that sounded way too high. “I, um… just didn’t wanna find out my grandma’s jewelry was stolen on top of everything else.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Sam said. “All right. I’ll see you next week, Randy.”

“Later, Sam.”

The bell chimed again as the officer left. The air felt too thin.

Randy turned back to the jewelry. “All right. Before my friend scared you half to death… let’s see. Best I can do is five grand for all of this.”

Melvin’s brain glitched. “Five… thousand?”

Randy nodded. “Could probably get more piecemeal, but I gotta think about my buyers. You want five cash, or no deal?”

Melvin stared at the gold, the diamonds, the metal. He knew he’d bagged at least eight marks in the last day, all rich, all careless, all walking around downtown L.A. like living ATMs. He thought of Vegas—the neon, the crowds, the heat of the stage lights, Julius Dein’s grin on a smartphone screen.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s do five.”

Randy counted out stacks of hundred-dollar bills, crisp and real. Melvin watched every one land on the counter.

Four thousand.

Forty-two hundred.

Forty-six.

Five thousand.

It was more money than he’d ever seen at once in his life.

“Don’t you want a receipt?” Randy asked, sliding the cash over.

“Nah,” Melvin said. “We’re good.”

He grabbed the money, stuffed it into his backpack like he couldn’t do it fast enough, and rushed out into the California sun.

He was invincible.

He was unstoppable.

He was going to Vegas.

By the time the high wore off, it was late. Streetlights blinked on, traffic thinned, and the heat finally loosened its grip on the city.

Jeremy called once.

Then twice.

Melvin didn’t answer.

He told himself he’d make it right later. After the convention. After the big break. Once he had money that didn’t have invisible fingerprints all over it.

People would understand then.

Somewhere across town—miles away from the pawn shop, away from the sweaty sidewalks and sleight-of-hand—Jeremy was shuffling a deck of cards alone in his room, practicing a new force over and over until the edges of the cards softened with use.

He’d stuck to his word.

He’d stayed on the street a little longer. A family from Ohio had tipped him twenty bucks. A guy in a Lakers jersey had dropped five. A little girl had given him a crumpled one-dollar bill and whispered, “You’re better than the magicians on YouTube.”

He’d gone home exhausted but strangely full, like the universe had given him just enough to keep going.

He refused to shortcut it.

If Vegas was meant to happen, it would happen the right way.

Melvin told himself the “right way” was overrated.

The next morning, just after opening, the bell over the pawn shop door rang again.

This time, the woman who walked in was shaking.

“Thank God you’re here,” she told Officer Sam, who’d swung by to drop off another list. “I need to report a stolen watch.”

She was elegant in that quiet, old-money way—pearl earrings, tailored blazer, hair perfectly set. But her hands trembled around her purse strap.

“What happened, ma’am?” Sam asked gently.

“I was at the plaza yesterday,” she said. “By the fountain near the gelato place. This young man—magician—did a trick for my grandson. He hugged me afterward, and when we got home…” Her voice broke. “My Cartier was gone. My son told me to come here. He said thieves like to sell stolen things fast.”

Sam’s jaw tightened. “You did the right thing. Do you have any pictures of the watch? Serial number? Receipt?”

“Yes.” She fumbled in her purse, pulled out a small folder. “My son keeps everything. He owns this shop, actually.”

Randy looked up, startled. “Mom?”

She gave him a tight smile. “Hi, baby.”

They moved to a side table. Sam took the paperwork, studied it, then compared the serial number with his printed list. He scribbled a note, nodded once, and looked thoughtful.

Randy’s eyes flicked to the jewelry behind the glass, then back to the folder he’d shoved under the counter earlier.

“Let’s see if your watch comes through my door,” he told his mother quietly. “If it does, we’ll know exactly what to do.”

Not even two hours later, the bell chimed again.

Melvin walked in, lighter this time—no plastic bag, just his backpack, weighed down with guilt and greed and a promise he’d made himself: Vegas or bust.

Randy’s face didn’t show anything. “Back already?”

“Yeah,” Melvin said easily. “My grandma, uh… gave me some more pieces. Wanted me to move ‘em quick.”

He unzipped his backpack, dumped more jewelry onto the counter. Among it, glittering like an accusation, sat a Cartier watch.

Randy’s stomach sank.

He’d seen that watch less than an hour ago. On paper. Attached to a report full of grief.

He swallowed. Kept his voice neutral. “Interesting collection.”

“Yeah, my grandparents were, uh, really into bling,” Melvin said, trying to sound casual. “How much do you think I can get for these?”

Sam stepped out from the back, like he’d just happened to be in the area.

Randy’s heart rate picked up.

“I thought your grandma had cancer,” Randy said. “And your grandpa was, what’d you say—passed away last year?”

“Yeah,” Melvin said slowly. “Why?”

“Because,” a voice said sharply from the doorway, “that watch was on my wrist yesterday.”

Melvin spun.

The elegant older woman stood there, more steady now, eyes locked on the Cartier in the pile. Behind her, Jeremy’s words echoed in Melvin’s head: Your actions always come back to you.

Officer Sam walked to the counter, all traces of joking gone.

“Are you sure, ma’am?” he asked.

She didn’t hesitate. “I’d know that piece anywhere. My husband gave it to me for our anniversary in New York. That’s my watch.”

Sam looked at Randy. “Check the serial.”

Randy picked up the watch with careful fingers. Turned it over.

His shoulders slumped. “It’s a match.”

The shop felt suddenly smaller. The air thick.

Melvin held up his hands. “Okay, okay, look—this isn’t—”

“Don’t,” Sam said. “Kid, you want to explain how you got that watch?”

Melvin’s mouth opened. Closed. The lies that had come so easily before twisted on his tongue and turned bitter.

“I… found it,” he tried.

“In a parking lot?” Sam asked calmly. “On the sidewalk? Or maybe… on someone else’s wrist?”

Melvin’s façade collapsed. Fear crashed through him in a cold wave.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Turn around,” Sam said. “Hands behind your back.”

Cold metal touched his wrists. The sound of handcuffs locking echoed louder than all the applause he’d ever heard.

“Wait!” Melvin panicked. “I can give everything back! I’ll fix it, I swear—”

The older woman shook her head. “That’s not how this works, young man.”

They led him out into the California sun, which didn’t feel warm anymore. People on the sidewalk stopped to stare. Phones came up. Someone whispered, “Is that the magician guy? The one from TikTok?”

Somewhere deep inside, a younger version of Melvin—one who loved magic because it made people smile, not because it made things disappear—watched in horror.

He thought of Jeremy.

He thought of Vegas.

He thought of the pawn shop folder full of serial numbers and victims’ names.

And for the first time in days, he realized just how badly he’d messed up.

County jail was nothing like the Vegas hotel room he’d imagined.

It smelled like bleach and sweat. The fluorescent lights buzzed all night. The food came on plastic trays, gray and bland. There was no applause here. No card tricks. No eager eyes.

Just time.

Hours and hours and hours of time.

He went to court. He heard the words “multiple counts of theft,” “grand larceny,” “restitution.” He saw the older woman with the Cartier watch sitting in the gallery, her expression unreadable.

He got six months.

Six months to think about every hand he’d shaken, every hug he’d used as cover, every watch he’d slipped loose.

The first familiar face he saw after sentencing was through a sheet of glass.

Jeremy.

They sat in the visitor room, plastic phones pressed to their ears, staring at each other like strangers who used to be friends.

“You tried to warn me,” Melvin said finally.

Jeremy’s eyes were sad, not smug. “Yeah. I did.”

“You happy now?” Melvin asked, voice rough. “You get to say ‘I told you so.’”

Jeremy shook his head. “No. This sucks. For everyone you hurt, sure—but also for you. You’re not a bad person, Mel. You just made bad choices.”

Melvin laughed bitterly. “Tell that to my record.”

A beat of silence. Somewhere a guard shouted at another inmate. A door buzzed.

“How’s magic?” Melvin asked, forcing the word out.

For the first time, Jeremy smiled. A real smile. The kind he used to wear on the street.

“It’s… good,” he said. “I kept grinding. Posted more tricks. One of my videos blew up on TikTok. You’ll never guess who saw it.”

Melvin rolled his eyes. “Who, Julius Dein?” He said it like a joke, but something in him dared to hope.

Jeremy’s smile widened. “Yeah. Actually… yes.”

Melvin froze. “You’re messing with me.”

“I’m not,” Jeremy said. “He was at MagicCon. I scraped together enough to buy a ticket, went out there alone. I didn’t even stay on the Strip; I found some trashy motel off the freeway. But I got into the convention. I camped out by the smaller stage, did street tricks in the hall, just trying to get noticed.”

“And?” Melvin whispered.

“And one of the other attendees recognized me from TikTok and dragged Julius over. He watched me perform. He pulled me on stage for a bit. We exchanged numbers.”

Melvin’s heartbeat thundered in his ears. The neon Vegas fantasy he’d clung to, twisted now into something sharper and sadder.

“He called me yesterday,” Jeremy said. “He’s doing a show in New York next week. Says the promoters will pay me five grand to perform a short set. First-class flight. Hotel. The works.”

Melvin swallowed hard. “That’s… that’s amazing, man. I’m happy for you.” And he was. It hurt, but it was true.

Jeremy’s phone buzzed against the glass. He glanced down. His eyes widened.

“You’re not gonna believe this,” he said. “It’s him.”

He answered, holding the phone to his ear with one hand and the plastic jail phone with the other.

“Hey, man,” Jeremy said, voice a little breathless. “Yeah, I’m here… Yeah, I’m excited… Uh-huh… Worked on a few new routines.”

Melvin listened to the muffled buzz of Julius’s voice through the distance, through the walls, through the life choices that had led them to two very different places.

Then Jeremy’s eyes flicked up, meeting Melvin’s.

“Another magician?” Jeremy repeated into the phone.

He looked at Melvin for a long second.

Julius’s voice crackled faintly. “You don’t happen to know anyone, do you?”

Silence stretched like a tightrope between them.

Melvin’s heart whispered, Pick me. Say my name. Tell him about the guy who used to stand on the corner with you, splitting tips and dreams.

Jeremy’s voice was soft. “No,” he said finally. “Not right now. But if I meet someone good, I’ll let you know.”

He hung up a minute later, wiping his palms on his jeans.

“That was your shot,” Melvin croaked. “You could’ve told him about me.”

“You’re in here for another six months,” Jeremy said gently. “And after that… you’ve got a lot of rebuilding to do. With yourself, with people you hurt. You can still be great, Melvin. But not like this. Not by skipping steps. Not by stealing your way to the top.”

Melvin stared down at his cuffed hands. Calluses on his fingers from years of practicing double lifts and false shuffles. Hands that were supposed to make people gasp with joy, not lunge for their missing jewelry.

“I ruined everything,” he said quietly.

“You ruined Vegas this year,” Jeremy said. “Not everything. You’ve got time. Use it.”

A guard banged on the glass. “Time’s up!”

Jeremy stood.

“I gotta go,” he said. “I need to get home and practice. I’ll come see you after New York. Tell you how the show went.”

“Yeah,” Melvin said. “Okay.”

Jeremy hesitated. “Hey. For what it’s worth… when I’m on that stage, I’ll think about us on the sidewalk. Those days weren’t all bad.”

He gave a small, sad smile.

Then he was gone.

The phone in Melvin’s hand felt suddenly heavy. He slammed it down harder than he meant to.

“Don’t we be slamming the phone,” the guard snapped. “Unless you want to spend another six months in here.”

Melvin leaned his forehead against the glass and closed his eyes.

In his mind, he saw a deck of cards.

A choice.

Pick any card.

Any life.

His fingers itched for one more trick—not to fool somebody else, but to somehow, impossibly, rewind his own story.

He couldn’t.

But maybe, when he got out, he could learn the toughest magic trick of all:

Making things right.