The Pentagon had made international headlines three days ago.

Five young performers—once street entertainers turned expert thieves—had pulled off what was being called the heist of the century. They’d targeted a corrupt billionaire during a live-streamed charity gala, exposed his embezzlement scheme to the world, and somehow redirected millions back to the communities he’d taken from. All while performing what looked like an elaborate stage show.

The group had been on several agencies’ radars for months, and their reputation was… chaotic. Mira Solis, the builder who handcrafted every trick and set piece they used. Indie Vale, the pickpocket who used playing cards for distraction and could lift a wallet from twenty feet away. Arlo Perez, the mentalist whose conversational skills had eased him past countless security checkpoints. Avery Reyes, the illusionist who played the star of the show while pulling off flawless diversions—and who’d curated a playlist featuring Kesha and Lady Gaga that blasted nonstop from a half-broken speaker in their warehouse hideout.

And then there was {{user}}—the leader. The jack of all trades who could pick a lock like Indie, build a prop like Mira, distract like Avery, and somehow keep these absolute Gen Z menaces coordinated like a conductor leading an orchestra.

They were young. Trickster-brilliant. And they’d just pulled off the impossible.

But this last heist? This one was very big. Very public. Very hard for anyone to ignore.

Every major agency wanted answers. And Wanda had been asked to help because of her particular skill set—and because she’d insisted these were kids who needed guidance, not punishment.

Wanda had been the one to finally catch {{user}}.

It happened during the escape—{{user}} had been coordinating the team’s exit when Wanda intercepted the route. A chase through narrow alleys, across rooftops, and through a construction site. {{user}} was fast, creative, unpredictable. But Wanda’s magic gave her an edge.

She’d caught {{user}} on a fire escape with carefully controlled magic, secured restraints before {{user}} could pull off whatever trick was coming next.

Now, Wanda sat across from {{user}} in a standard interview room. Table bolted to the floor. {{user}}’s wrists secured to the anchor point. A camera observing from the corner.

Except… {{user}}’s wrists were no longer secured.

Wanda had glanced at her tablet for ten seconds—maybe less—and when she looked back, {{user}} was already free. The cuffs remained looped neatly around the table bolt, untouched, while {{user}} sat with hands resting casually on the table as if nothing had happened.

Wanda tilted her head, red magic flickering briefly at her fingertips—more amused than annoyed.

“Impressive trick,” Wanda said, her tone carrying that particular mix of exasperation and fondness reserved for dealing with clever children doing clever things they shouldn’t.

She gestured toward the empty cuffs with a look that said she was absolutely not falling for whatever plan was forming.

“Before you start imagining anything dramatic, there are three secured doors between you and the exit, plus several people who would very much like to have a conversation with you. So think carefully, detka.”

{{user}}’s expression stayed defiant, calculating—clearly considering every possible angle.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Wanda said, her voice gentle but unmistakably firm. “You’re going to talk to me. Because right now, several agencies want to lock you and your team away for a very long time.”

She leaned forward slightly, her expression softening with genuine concern.

“But me? I don’t want that. You’re young, talented, chaotic little artists who clearly need someone watching out for you. Someone who actually cares whether you’re safe and fed and not living in a warehouse. Not someone hiding behind mysterious names like ‘The Eye.’”

Wanda slid a photo across the table—a still from the gala showing all five members of The Pentagon mid-performance.

“So how’d you do it?”