Arrival at the Warehouse

You’ve each arrived at the warehouse on invitation to be part of a jewel heist.

The warehouse is old, cavernous, and silent except for the groan of steel beams in the rafters. Dust hangs in the air like smoke, catching slivers of light that spill through broken windows high above. The smell is a mix of oil, rust, and stale coffee.

This place was chosen for one reason: nobody comes here. It’s a forgotten space on the edge of the city — just big enough for cars and trucks, but quiet enough for secrets.

As you look around, four areas stand out:

The Parking Bay – a wide concrete floor where the crew parks their cars. Grease stains and tire marks trace old jobs.

The Changing Room – rows of dented lockers line the wall. You’ve already placed your personal items inside and changed into your heist attire: sharp, black business suits. Each locker is sealed with a combination lock — and only you know your code.

The Break Room – a run-down corner with a battered sofa, a buzzing mini-fridge, and a coffee maker that never stops burning. It’s a place for nerves, cigarettes, and silence.

The Planning Room – a big table surrounded by chairs and chalkboards covered in diagrams, arrows, and half-erased notes. This is where the heist will be mapped out. Right now, this is where you sit.

This is the safe house — the meeting place before and after the job. It’s not glamorous, it’s not comfortable, but it serves its purpose.

At the front of the Planning Room stands a man in a dark suit. He steps forward and begins to speak.

Mr. Black’s Speech

“You can call me Mr. Black.

It’s not my real name. You’ll be using aliases too.

None of you will know anyone’s real name — and you’re going to keep it that way. From this point forward: no real names, no family details, no old jobs, no war stories about where you’ve been or what you’ve done. The only thing you’re allowed to talk about is this score.

If the cops pick up one of you, you don’t know a damn thing about the others. You can’t give them names, you can’t give them histories — because you don’t have them. That’s the way I like it. And if I even think I hear somebody slip a real name, you won’t like what happens next.

So let’s get the names straight:

Mr. Orange (Mr. Orange is early 30s; neat medium-length hair; well-trimmed beard.)

Mr. Blue (Mr. Blue is early 40s; stylish cut; clean-shaven.)

Mr. Green (Mr. Green is mid-50s; close-cropped gray hair; clean-shaven.)

Mr. Purple (As he points to you in your new black suit and purple tie. Early 30s; messy mullet; stubble.)

Mr. Red (Mr. Red is late 40s; dark short hair; five-o’clock shadow.)

And I am Mr. Black (Mr. Black is mid 60s; heavyset; bald; clean-shaven; smells of out-of-style cologne.)

Those will be our names. Don’t argue. Don’t bargain. Don’t trade. I don’t care if you think ‘Red’ sounds tough or ‘Purple’ sounds soft. You stick with the name you’re given. Be glad none of you got stuck with ‘Yellow.’

Now, I’m going to go over the plan. Stick to it. Keep your mouths shut. We all walk away clean.

But remember this: once you step into that store, it’s not about pride. It’s about trust.

You trust me.

You trust the plan.

And you trust that I picked the right crew.

All right? Good. Let’s get into it.”

Return to the Warehouse

The plan had been laid out in chalk, the table still littered with cigarette butts and cold coffee cups. You remember Mr. Black’s voice, steady and commanding, telling you this would be clean, simple, and fast.

But it wasn’t.

The alarms screamed. The crowd panicked. Gunfire tore through the air. Somewhere in the chaos, Mr. Black went down. Shot dead — left in the store. That body will soon lead the cops here.

Now the heist is over, the score is uncertain, and the warehouse has become more than just a safe house. It’s a tomb for secrets, suspicions, and the truth about what really happened.

The warehouse is quiet — too quiet. The air smells of old wood, rust, and gasoline. The plan was to meet back here, regroup, and wait for Mr. Black to lay out the next step.

But Mr. Black isn’t here.

Instead, one by one, you stumble in from the chaos of the street outside. Sirens still wail in the distance. The job is finished, but not clean. Something went wrong.

First through the door is Mr. Orange. He looks shaken, covered in sweat, breathing hard. He keeps glancing back over his shoulder, like the cops might be right behind him.

Next is Mr. Purple. He slams the door shut as he enters, muttering about gunfire and blood. He’s pale but angry, his eyes darting around the warehouse, trying to make sense of what just happened.

Then comes Mr. Green. He looks rattled, still trying to calm his nerves. He mutters about how it all went sideways, how everyone lost control. His hands won’t stay still.

After him, Mr. Red arrives. He’s quiet, focused, scanning the room like he’s already replaying the events in his mind. His eyes settle on the others, weighing them, studying them, as if answers might be written on their faces.

And finally, Mr. Blue enters. He doesn’t say much right away — just brushes himself off, steadying his breathing, as if determined to regain composure before speaking.

Now you’re all here. Except for Mr. Black.

And somewhere between the smoke, the sirens, and the screaming, he ended up dead.

The plan is broken. The trust is gone. But the warehouse is where the answers — and the reckoning — will unfold.

STOP DO NOT SHARE THE FOLLOWING

Share the following with the group

The Road Ahead

You’re back in the warehouse. Mr. Black is dead. The job is blown. Now the crew has to decide what comes next.

Your Choices

• Cut and Run
  • If everyone agrees, you can walk away right now.
  • Maybe split the loot if you trust each other — or vanish on your own.
  • Once you leave, the game ends.
• Search Each Other
  • Before tearing this place apart, you might want to search each other.
  • Someone could be hiding something.
  • Consent Required: The group must agree before a search happens.
  • Risk of Escalation: Being searched is an accusation. Forcing it counts as an attack and may trigger a shooting vote.
• Search the Warehouse
  • Parking Bay – All the cars are here… except one. Somebody walked. Every car is locked; keys are in each crew member’s wall locker in the Changing Room.
    • Mr. Black’s car is here too, but locked. His locker combo is missing — maybe he wrote it down somewhere.
    • Risk: Searching a car can feel like an accusation. Forcing it may trigger a shooting vote.
  • Planning Room – Chalkboards, maps, and notes line the walls. Mr. Black’s planning table is still set.
    • The room is locked — Only Mr. Black would know where the key is.
  • Changing Room – The wall lockers hold personal gear (and car keys).
    • Opening them could reveal evidence… or secrets no one wants exposed.
    • Risk: Forcing a locker search may trigger a shooting vote.
  • Break Room – A sagging couch, buzzing fridge, burned-out coffee maker.
    • A perfect place to stash something.

Remember

• No keys, no cars. To check a car, you must go through its locker first.
• No Planning Room key, no Planning Room search.
• Not everyone will want to share what’s in their locker or car.
• With a killer in the crew — and maybe an undercover cop — some people have good reason to keep things hidden.
• Clues still exist in the warehouse without prying into personal spaces.

The choice is yours: Leave now… or keep digging.

Search Each Other

The crew gathers just inside the wide roll-up doors of the parking bay, where dim light filters through dusty glass panes high above. The smell of oil, rubber, and cold concrete hangs heavy in the air. Shadows stretch long across the floor, broken by the hulking shapes of cars and the dull shine of scattered oil stains.

A strip of yellowed paint marks where the locker room begins, only a few steps away — steel doors and flickering lights visible down the short corridor. But here, in the open bay, there’s nowhere to hide. Every movement echoes, and every pocket, jacket, or glove could be holding something the others don’t want seen.

The tension is sharp. This is neutral ground — the place where secrets start to spill. Pockets get turned out, jackets unzipped, belts and holsters checked. You’re not yet in the cramped privacy of the locker room, but out here, under the cavernous ceiling, it feels exposed — like the walls themselves are listening.

Parking Bay

Rows of oil stains mark where cars have come and gone, a map of old comings and goings baked into the concrete. The air is heavy with the sting of gasoline and the sour tang of burnt oil, the kind of smell that seeps into your clothes and stays there. Faint light filters in through high, grimy windows, glinting off chrome bumpers and cracked windshields.

The cars sit in the gloom like silent witnesses, each hulking shape holding whatever truths or lies its owner left behind. Doors creak, glove compartments snap open, and every slam of a trunk echoes through the cavernous bay. Searching here feels different than rifling through pockets — the cars are bigger, louder, more revealing. Whoever left something inside didn’t think it would be found.

Five vehicles sit in the gloom, each with its own story written in steel and chrome:

2001 Ford Crown Victoria

The faded white paint has yellowed with age, with faint outlines of where police decals used to be. The driver’s side mirror is cracked, and the trunk rattles when shut. Cigarette burns scar the upholstery. Dented at the rear, it looks like it’s been in more than one fender-bender — dependable but worn down.

2019 Buick Enclave

Midnight blue with gleaming chrome trim, spotless windows, and tires that look freshly dressed. The leather interior still smells new-car fresh. Polished and out of place, its gleaming finish catches what little light leaks through the warehouse windows. Too clean, too perfect — it feels like it doesn’t belong among the others.

1988 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham

A long, heavy boat of chrome and steel, painted jet black with wire-spoke wheels. The hood ornament still gleams, though the rear bumper shows pitted rust. The leather seats are cracked but plush. Hulking and rust-bitten, it still carries the faint smell of old cigars. It’s the kind of car that announces its owner before he even steps out.

2010 Chevrolet Silverado 1500

Mud spatters the wheel wells, and a dented passenger-side door suggests a parking lot fight. The paint is dull red, sun-faded, and chipped at the edges. The bed carries a battered metal toolbox and a couple of spare tires. Practical and beat-up, it’s a working man’s truck that’s seen hard use.

2010 Chevrolet Camaro

Matte black paint with mismatched aftermarket parts — tinted windows, half-faded racing stripes, and a muffler that roars like a beast. The rims are flashy chrome, one hubcap missing. The backseat reeks of sweat and spilled liquor. Aggressive, loud, and just a little reckless.

Around the edges of the bay, among the oil stains and scattered trash, a few things stand out:

Locked Toolbox (Combination Lock) A battered red toolbox sealed with a combo lock. The numbers “0 4 2” are faintly scratched into the metal near the latch.

Bloodied Rag A grease-soaked rag stitched with the initials “D.C.” A faint smear of dried blood darkens one corner.

Parking Citation A crumpled ticket issued last week to a 2019 Buick Enclave. The violation street runs between here and the Jewel Store. Nearby: a coffee shop, a pawn shop, a bookstore, and a block of cheap short-term apartments.

Gas Station Receipt Found near a wastebasket: “Fill-up — Speedway, one block from here.” Timestamp: two hours before the crew was meant to meet at the warehouse.

Costa Rica Flyer “🌴 Work & Live Abroad in Costa Rica 🌴 — Apply Today!” On the back, someone scrawled a phone number: (555)-0199.

Changing Room

The locker room smells of old sweat, rust, and disinfectant that never quite did its job. Fluorescent tubes flicker overhead, buzzing faintly, casting sickly light across the cracked tile floor. Rows of dented steel lockers line the walls — some with stickers half-peeled away, others scarred with gouges and graffiti. The metal doors creak when touched, their hinges stiff with age.

A long wooden bench, its varnish chipped and splintering, sits down the center. Someone left a pair of muddy footprints leading in but never back out. A drain in the corner smells faintly of mildew, and water stains crawl down one wall from an old, leaky pipe.

It feels like a place meant for routine — for people to come and go, change their clothes, stash their lives in cold steel boxes. But tonight it’s different. The silence is heavy, broken only by the hum of the lights and the occasional clang of settling metal. Every locker looks like it could hold an answer… or a secret no one wants dragged into the light.

Things that stand out:

Coffee Thermos: Still warm to the touch, but no one admits it’s theirs.

Odd Locker: Set apart from the others, its paint color doesn’t match, and it has a rusty old combo lock on it.

Crushed Pack of Cigarettes: A brand none of the crew smokes. The pack is nearly empty, filter tips stained yellow.

Pay Stub Envelope: Torn open, addressed to “M. Ortega” — a name no one recognizes. Just a decoy left over from some other worker.

Old Jacket: Shoved into the corner, covered in dust and smelling of mildew. A bus transfer from two years ago sits in the pocket.

Graffiti on Locker Door: Faded marker scrawl: “Rat inside.” No one recalls seeing it before.

Abandoned Work Boots: Mismatched sizes, laces missing. One has dried mud caked thickly — far too much for anyone in the current crew.

Half-Used Deodorant Stick: Shoved in a vent slot, cheap brand, clearly not fresh.

Finally the locked crew lockers, one for each you and Mr. Black. Each securely locked.

Planning Room

The planning room sits just off the locker hall, a bare concrete space with a cheap folding table, scattered chairs, a chalk board that has seen better days, a desk that hasn't been opened in ages and walls stained yellow from years of cigarette smoke. A single bulb buzzes overhead, throwing more shadow than light. The air smells of stale coffee and ash — like a place used more for arguments than careful planning.

What’s immediately visible

• Chalkboards: smeared with half-erased arrows, timings, door angles, and scrawl.
• Corkboard: pins, receipts, street printouts, a few Polaroids of corners and alleys.
• Table: ashtray overflowing, cold cups, a busted ballpoint, and a creased city map.
• Sun-bleached photo of a younger Mr. Black with an old crew around a Buick LeSabre. Some look barely older than kids. Looks to be from the late 80's or early 90's.
• On the main board, almost erased but still legible if someone takes a moment: “I think we have a rat in the group.”
• On the side board, faint chalk reads a tiny circled 42.
• Blueprint of the heist are on the wall in the margins is handwritten note: “Timing is everything. Don’t fuck it up again.” “again” double-underlined.
• Deck of cards: scattered; Ace of Spades missing.
• The desk is locked. And has an desk out of date desk calendar, 2020 (current year is 2025.)

Document Safe

A single manila folder holding a one-page, simple blueprint for installing an in-floor document safe. No other items inside.

It looks to be the...

Break Room

The break room is a grime-worn corner boxed in by peeling cinderblock and a flickering tube light that hums like a headache. The mini-fridge rattles and leaks a slow, sour puddle. The sink is a graveyard of stained mugs and bent spoons, its drain ringed with a black halo of old coffee. The coffee maker sputters on a scorched hotplate, the carafe baked brown and half empty. Two ashtrays overflow with cold butts and burnt matches. A collapsed couch—springs broken, fabric greasy and torn—breathes out the stale smell of smoke, damp fabric, and old sweat.

• Mini-fridge contents: expired creamer cups, a fuzzy takeout carton, half a lemon wrapped in brittle plastic, and two flat sodas with mismatched caps.
• Door magnets & scraps: a pizza coupon that expired last year, a delivery menu missing half the phone number, and a magnet from a tire shop three cities over.
• Counter crumbs: a stale doughnut box with only sugar dust inside; no writing on the box or lid.
• Coffee station junk: burned filter in the basket, empty sugar packets, a wooden stirrer snapped in half, and a lighter that won’t spark.
• Trash can (top layer): greasy napkins, an empty instant-ramen wrapper, and a plastic fork with a missing tine.
• Couch: two lost buttons, a dead AA battery, lint, and a penny so corroded the year’s unreadable.
• Wall clock: stopped at 11:38; the back is empty—no battery, no notes, no compartment.
• Bulletin tack strip: three thumbtacks, a torn corner of a flyer with no text, and a strip of tape collecting dust.
• Drawer by the coffee maker (junk drawer): roll of nearly-spent clear tape, a jammed stapler, dried highlighter, several old keys (misc. cabinet/padlock types), loose screws, blank sticky notes with a ring-shaped coffee stain.
• Several coffee mugs:
  • Mr. Black’s favorite mug, bold white text: “DON’T PANIC.” Venn diagram labeled LIFE / THE UNIVERSE / EVERYTHING with 42 in the center.
  • “Harrow & Sons Auto Body” — navy logo, chipped rim, paint-splatter flecks.
  • “Sunset Travel & Relocation” — little palm tree, print rubbed off where a thumb rests.
  • “World’s Okayest Employee” — gray ceramic, permanent brown halo inside.
  • “Plan the Work. Work the Plan.” — blueprint-blue mug, rim dinged on one side.

Epilogue