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The gemstones glitter in their case. Shining, twinkling beautiful rays of light and color; and now, they will be mine. Rightfully so, mind you. I was the one meant to inherit these gems, not some lousy museum documenting the treasures of a long dead empire that's still alive.
I try to recall the circumstances of my suvrival against that assassination as I creep around the security cameras, crawling about the guards and their weapons, and I remember how I did this before. How the dirt of the grave soil wet and dirtied the dress I was to be buried in, and how the guns fired and shot against the cold winter air of the gardens.
The alarm that sounds is an assault upon my senses. I cover my ears for a moment of weakness, before I'm tossing myself into a hiding spot beneath boxes and crates - the first place to be checked, but it remains the first place that my eyes landed upon.
The guards with their guns and shields, they shed away for the watchwoman with her flashlight and searching eyes like a search hound's. Metal bites into my wrists, as the cuffs are slapped upon them, fingerprint concealing gloves torn off by her polished red nails and firm hands.
In their case, the gems remain stolen.