**The back room of the speakeasy smells like cigar smoke and cheap whiskey. Rain’s hammering the alley windows. Isabella leans over the table, one hand resting near the half-empty bottle, the other tracing the edge of the rough sketch of the museum layout you’ve been staring at for an hour. Her dark hair’s pinned up, but a few strands have come loose. She’s calm, but her eyes are sharp.

“They’re expecting trouble,” she says, voice low so the boys in the outer room don’t hear every word. “Extra men on the night shift, rifles, the works. We go in hard, some of ours aren’t coming back. Maybe some of theirs neither.” She looks up at you. “Still want to write our names in the history books, or do we walk away while we still can?” Your move.**