Who Took My Chicken Curry?

My name was Declan Cordery, and I was a junior in the Department of Computer Science at Greyfriars University.

At this moment, I was standing in front of the delivery rack outside my dorm building. It was only Wednesday, but this was already the fourth delivery of mine that had been stolen this week.

"Empty-handed again, Dec?" my roommate, Carlson Hart, asked sympathetically as he patted my shoulder. "Take my advice, man. Stop looking. It's a waste of time. Just stick to frozen mac and cheese."

I didn't say anything and simply stared at the empty spot on the delivery rack. It was fried chicken yesterday. And the day before, a box of chilli cheese nachos. And before that, a 60-dollar order of garlic butter seafood.

Whoever was stealing the food was clearly a repeat offender with very picky taste. They were only targeting orders that were more expensive.

"No," I said, drawing in a deep breath. "I'm not sleeping tonight, Carl."

"Whoa, what are you planning? Are you really going to go all out over a 30-dollar chicken curry?" Carlson asked, shocked.

"This isn't about the money anymore."

At 8:00 pm, I opened my drawer and took out the miniature GPS tracker left over from my Internet of Things course. I also grabbed a small bottle of powerful laxatives I'd gotten from a buddy in medical school.

Carlson watched with wide eyes and swallowed hard. "Hey, Dec, this is entrapment… And isn't it a little too ruthless?"

"Ruthless?" I repeated as I used a syringe to evenly inject the laxative into the freshly delivered chicken. "You don't tame a wild beast with words and good intentions. I believe in retribution. Since they like stealing other people's food, they should be prepared to shit their guts out."

I used waterproof tape to firmly attach the tracker to the bottom of the takeout box. Then, I put the food back into the delivery bag and sealed it properly.

At 8:15 pm, I placed this special delivery back on the rack downstairs and retreated into the shadows nearby with my phone in hand. The screen showed the real-time location of the tracker.

Time ticked by. By 8:40 pm, the crowd around the pick-up area had thinned out.

Suddenly, someone approached the delivery rack. It was a young woman wearing a cream-colored coat with an LV bag slung over her shoulder. Judging by her appearance, she didn't look like someone who would steal someone else's deliveries.

She scanned the orders as she stood in front of the rack. Eventually, her eyes landed on my chicken curry. Without any hesitation, she picked it up and walked away.

I watched the red dot on my phone screen start moving and smirked. "Gotcha."

I followed her.

However, when the red dot on the tracker finally stopped in front of a luxurious single-person dorm, I realized this thief's identity might be more high-profile than I'd imagined.

I went up the stairs all the way to the fourth floor, where the tracker's signal locked onto room 402. Standing in front of the security door, I could even smell the rich aroma of the chicken curry.

I pulled out my phone, turned on the camera to start recording, and knocked firmly on the door.

"Who is it? It's so late at night! Are you trying to wake the dead?" An extremely impatient female voice came from inside, accompanied by the sound of slippers shuffling across the floor.

The door then opened, revealing the same young woman I had seen earlier. She had already changed into silk pajamas and had my takeout box in her hand, chewing on a piece of chicken.

When she saw me, her brow furrowed, and she looked at me with disgust. "Who are you? Wrong door?"

"No, I'm not at the wrong door," I said, pointing at the takeout box she was holding. "That's my delivery. The receipt has my phone number and name on it—Declan Cordery. Do you want to hear the tracker buzzing from the bottom of the box?"

The young woman paused for a moment, and her gaze fell on the bottom of the box, where she saw the circle of black waterproof tape. But there was no shame or panic on her face after being caught red-handed. Instead, she gave me a dismissive glance and let out a contemptuous snort.

"Oh, it's yours."

Then, she casually tossed the half-eaten box of chicken curry onto the shoe rack by the entrance. Crossing her arms, she looked me up and down.

"So what? It's just a lousy 30-dollar meal. You really had to follow me all the way to my door? Makes you look like a beggar."