Alex extends his arm. No words, no accusation, no dramatic closing argument — just a hand, open and level, aimed at the bag with the quiet certainty of someone who has already won and is simply waiting for the paperwork to catch up. The Moped Kid stares at it. The Kotor Cat stares at nothing, which is somehow more unnerving. The smirk completes its retreat to perhaps thirty percent. A seagull argues with a fisherman down by the harbour. Mira turns another page. The bag slides from the kid's shoulder and lands in Alex's palm with a soft, incriminating thud — passports intact, camera lens cap present, emergency crisp reserves visibly raided. The Moped Kid squares his shoulders. "Your camera," he says, with the careful dignity of someone executing a hard pivot from grand theft to unexpected connoisseurship. "Good lens." Alex looks at the bag, then at the kid. "Do you want to show us somewhere worth photographing?"