Disrespecting dictators, huh? They like the cut of this person's jib. Undercutting themself at every moment, though, they keep talking even while they walk closer to the door into the storeroom. Just to keep the patrol up, and all.

"My father has people to do that for him," they say, holding the flashlight a little tighter. "The fishing, not the part that's just common sense. But I'm not sure he has much personal interest in either—there's no money to be made in thinking or fish." They don't realize how much they're scowling until they hear it come through in their voice. It's complicated, the way they feel about their father. Maybe they should keep that inside for now.

"I feel like I've barely done anything with my life, so some petty larceny is right up my alley. Need a light?" they ask more pleasantly as they walk up behind their accomplice. The flashlight, now shining, barely reflects off some dull metal vaguely in the shape of a ladder near the back of the closet. "Oh, that should work, right?"