Ten-year-old Billy clutched his controller, his eyes glued to the vibrant pixels of his screen. Arthur, his "coolest" friend, sat beside him, oblivious to Billy's world of digital battles and virtual conquests. Arthur, with his easygoing charm and genuine smile, was the perfect foil to Billy's intense, screen-obsessed persona. Billy, however, saw Arthur as a mere audience to his silent, virtual triumphs, punctuating every successful maneuver with a mumbled, "Good job, Arthur," a phrase that hung oddly in the air, unacknowledged.

Billy's obsession wasn't just gaming; it was a complete immersion. He lived and breathed pixels, his real-world interactions stunted by his digital escapades. This detachment, however, fueled a strange, twisted ambition. He'd meticulously planned a bank robbery, not for the money, but for the thrill of the challenge, the intricate planning, the digital-like precision he craved. He saw it as a complex game, a puzzle to be solved, a high-score to be achieved.

His plan was audacious, even for a seasoned criminal, let alone a ten-year-old. He'd studied security camera angles, mapped out escape routes, and even created a detailed spreadsheet of the bank's daily transactions – all while simultaneously playing his favorite online game. He’d even recruited Arthur, unknowingly, as his getaway driver. He'd simply told Arthur they were going on a "super-secret mission," a phrase that held enough intrigue for Arthur to agree without question.

The day of the "mission" arrived. Billy, dressed in a black hoodie far too big for him, felt a surge of adrenaline, a mixture of excitement and nervous energy. He'd timed everything perfectly, or so he thought. He'd even accounted for the possibility of a security guard, a variable he'd programmed into his mental simulation.

But Billy hadn't accounted for one crucial element: himself. As he and Arthur approached the bank, Billy's eyes, usually glued to a screen, were momentarily distracted by a particularly challenging level in his game. He’d pulled out his phone, hidden under his oversized hoodie, and was furiously tapping away, muttering, "Good job, Arthur," as he navigated a particularly tricky maze.

The bank alarm blared. Arthur, confused and startled, looked at Billy, who was completely engrossed in his game, oblivious to the flashing lights and the sirens wailing in the distance. The police arrived swiftly, apprehending Billy mid-game, his fingers still furiously tapping on his phone. His meticulously planned heist had crumbled, not because of a security flaw or a sudden change of plans, but because he couldn't tear himself away from his digital world, even in the face of real-world consequences.

Later, sitting in a police car, surrounded by flashing lights, Billy mumbled, "Good job, Arthur," to the bewildered officer. Arthur, finally understanding the strange disconnect between his friend's words and actions, simply shook his head, a mixture of concern and disbelief etched on his face. The "super-secret mission" had ended not with a bang, but with a whimper, a testament to Billy's inability to distinguish between reality and the virtual world he so desperately clung to. His "mastermind" plan had been foiled not by a cunning detective or a sophisticated security system, but by his own unwavering devotion to the screen.