Gary's surveillance began the next day.
By 4:00 a.m., a certain suburb was still wrapped in darkness.
Director Graham's home sat within a gated community lined with trimmed hedges and evenly spaced streetlamps casting soft yellow pools across the pavement. The houses were uniform in distance but varied in design—modern brick facades, wide driveways, double garages.
Graham's home was modest compared to some others in the district.
Two stories.
Cream exterior.
Warm porch lights left on through the night.
A wooden fence enclosed the backyard, where a large oak tree stood near the center of the lawn. Built around its trunk was a small treehouse—weathered wood, a rope ladder pulled halfway up.
A sign nailed crookedly to its side read: *No Grown-Ups Allowed.*
The house looked lived in.
Normal.
Quiet.
Behind a row of tall shrubs along the fence line, two small figures crouched low.
Minions.
