(Read while enjoying the song – Cake by the Ocean – DNCE ‧ 2015)

Rand’s dogs always swarmed me when I arrived. Pure euphoria—jumping, begging for attention. I’d push them away politely; I wasn’t much of a dog person, but I didn’t complain either. It was just the cost of being there.

I pulled up in my gray, rounded VW Gol, orange backpack slung over my shoulder, and walked through the open gate.

We’d sit in the living room. Rand would prep the lines with ritualistic precision. He was communicative, generous, the kind of guy who made friends anywhere. He could hold someone in conversation for hours without breaking a sweat.

I was his polar opposite. Technical, introspective, more at home with code. But there, with him, I relaxed. Or at least I faked it—I’d become an expert at that.

“Got a light, man?” Rand asked, cigarette already in his mouth.

I pulled the yellow lighter from my pocket—the survivor—lit it for him, and tucked it back away.

We didn’t talk much about Depil Xu. We didn’t have to. We both knew how she’d wrecked him. I saw it in the silences, in the way his hands paused while prepping the lines, in the topics he carefully avoided. Relationships were dangerous territory.

Attachment was vulnerability.

And I was about to put that theory to the ultimate test.

I spent months just watching. Studying him. The way he handled people, how he built trust effortlessly. That skill was going to be crucial.

But there was a bigger problem I had to solve first: the perfect plan required leaving no traces. None. For years, I had searched for the answer on how to achieve that.

At first, I couldn’t see it. Every scenario I simulated had a leak. Technology can be tracked. Patterns can be identified. Witnesses can emerge.

But the most unpredictable variable was always the human one.

And then it hit me: I already knew the answer. I’d always known. I just needed enough leverage to execute it.

The answer was to eliminate all variables. Literally.

But to do that, paradoxically, I would have to break my own rule: I’d have to involve someone else.

And that someone was Rand.

It started on an ordinary night.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” I said, keeping my voice casual.

“What’s that?”

“A score. But not just any score—something perfect. No traces, no flaws.”

He smirked, thinking it was all theoretical. “Every crime has a flaw, man.”

“That’s exactly why I’ve never pulled one. But I’ve been developing this for years. I finally figured out how to make it foolproof.”

I laid it out slowly, letting him soak it in. High-end gym locker rooms across the country. São Paulo, Rio, Brasília, Curitiba, Porto Alegre, Salvador, Recife. Wealthy targets, zero connection between them.

“The projected take is a hundred million,” I said, watching his face.

“A hundred… mill?”

“Maybe more, maybe less. Depends on the targets. If the yield looks low, we abort. No point risking it for scraps. But if we pick right, it could go way past that.”

Rand was processing. He snorted a line, looking thoughtful.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I found the right person. You have something I don’t—you’re a natural with people. You can keep anyone talking without looking suspicious. It’s a gift.”

I saw his ego inflate, just a bit. I kept going.

“But there’s a catch. And I need you to understand how serious this is.”

“What catch?”

“I spent years looking for the perfect crime. I realized the only way is to leave no uncontrolled variables. None. I control the tech. I control the timing. But people…”

“People are unpredictable,” he finished for me.

“Exactly. And you’re a person. An extra variable.”

I let the silence hang between us.

“But here’s why I decided to tell you: I trust you. I’m breaking my own rule—doing it alone—because I realized you’re different. You understand loyalty. You understand security.”

Building the narrative, brick by brick.

“And most importantly: I have rules to ensure this works. Non-negotiable rules.”

“Like what?”

“First: we do this exactly once. Never again. I don’t care how much we make or how tempted we get. One and done. Repetition creates patterns, and patterns get you caught.”

He nodded slowly.

“Second: absolute mutual trust. If either of us thinks the other is slipping, we abort. No questions asked.”

“Third: no emotional traces. No flashy spending, no lifestyle changes. The money trickles in, discreetly, over years.”

Rand was hypnotized. I saw the exact second he was sold.

“You really did think of everything,” he said.

“I did. For years. And only now did I find someone I can trust enough to break my rule about working alone.”

Lie. I knew from day one he was disposable.

But he believed it. Everyone believes it when you build the right narrative.

“I’m in,” he finally said. “When do we start?”

“When you’re ready. But remember: just once. After that, we go back to our lives and we never mention it again.”

“Just once,” he repeated, like a vow.

I smiled internally.

He didn’t know my rule was different: once with each person.

And he was just another name on the list.

It took four months. We traveled together—executives in meetings, brothers on a bender. Elite gyms in seven capitals.

Rand was a natural. He’d lock CEOs and entrepreneurs into conversations about the market, networking, opportunities. Twenty, thirty minutes at a time. I had all the time in the world.

I hacked 114 phones. I spent weeks analyzing financial profiles, transactions, investments. I cross-referenced the data and purged the risks.

I selected 41 targets. Combined net worth? Impossible to pin down, but they all had millions in liquid assets and international credit.

If everything went right, we’d hit the hundred million mark. But it was unpredictable—it depended on what each one had available the moment we struck.

During those months, the friendship deepened. More waterfalls, more talks, more time at his place. The dogs would jump, I’d push them away. He’d just laugh.

We didn’t talk about Depil. But I knew she was still living rent-free in his head. I saw it when he’d drift off, prepping another line in silence.

Attachment. Always attachment.

And I still had none.

D-Day. Thursday, 2:14 PM. Forty-one accounts accessed simultaneously.

Bitcoin, Ethereum, Monero—cascading conversions through sixty-three ghost wallets. The money danced through the system until it was unrecognizable.

Fourteen days later, I finished the audit.

We met at his house. He was wired, the dogs picking up on the energy.

“How much?”

“Forty-one million, fourteen thousand.”

Lower than the goal, but a lot. A hell of a lot.

Rand exploded. “HOLY SHIT! We did it! We actually did it!”

I stayed calm. It wasn’t my first time.

“Remember the rule?” I asked.

“Once and done. I know, I know. But fuck, man—forty-one million!”

“That’s why we need to celebrate. Close the loop properly.”

“How?”

“That waterfall. Where we met. Where you almost died that first time.”

He laughed, nostalgic. “Did too much, thought it was the end.”

“Let’s go tomorrow. A closing ritual. It started there; it ends there.”

“Perfect, man. Perfect.”

The waterfall was deserted. Mid-week, exactly when I knew it would be empty.

We sat on the rocks. Rand prepped the lines, talking nonstop about his plans—how he’d invest quietly, follow the rules.

“We did it right, didn’t we? Stuck to the plan. One time. No repeats.”

“We did,” I said.

I pulled the special bag from my pocket.

“Brought this for the occasion. One last celebration.”

He didn’t question the strange purity or the generous portion I offered.

Blind trust.

More lines. He talked, laughed, reminisced. “You’re my brother, man. Not just a partner. You’re family.”

“I feel the same,” I lied, monitoring his breathing.

When he started to stagger, when the disorientation set in, I stayed by his side. I held him as he slumped over.

I cried—real tears, practiced over the years.

“Why…?” he wheezed, in his final moment of clarity.

“Because that was the answer I knew from the start. The only way to eliminate the human variable is to eliminate it literally. I trusted you, Rand. But trust has an expiration date.”

“The… rules…”

“I followed my rules. You followed yours. The difference is that mine always included this moment.”

I watched his breathing stop. I waited the exact amount of time before calling emergency services—the panicked, desperate friend. “My friend! He did too much! Please, I need help!”

I arrived before the ambulance. Stayed with the body. Cried when they pronounced him dead.

At the wake, I was the most devastated person in the room. I hugged his family. I gave a speech about friendship and loyalty. I cried at the coffin—cynical, but necessary.

I kept visiting the house afterward. Helping with the dogs, comforting the neighbor who took them in. I couldn’t just vanish. That would be a pattern.

And it worked. No one suspected a thing.

The 41 fraud cases were never linked. Different cities, different profiles. They were filed away as unsolved cybercrimes.

The money? Invested offshore over the years. Shell companies in five countries. Gradual acquisitions.

I knew how to do this because I’d done it before.

Rand wasn’t the first.

And he won’t be the last.

The perfect crime isn’t a one-off—it’s a method.

I spent years looking for the answer to a crime without traces. And when I finally found it, I realized I’d known it all along.

Eliminate the variables. Build the trust. Execute perfectly. And remove the human element at the precise moment.

Rand followed his rules: once, no repeats, mutual trust.

I followed mine: once with each person, erase all traces, never attach.

Attachment is vulnerability.

And I never attach.