Miller arrived at the scene to find the ballroom quarantined. The piñata, now a hollowed-out carcass of cardboard and glue, lay in the center of the dance floor. Strewn around it were the 'Death Bugs'—a rare, genetically modified subspecies of the Titanus Necrosis . They didn’t just bite; they carried a fast-acting neurotoxin that turned a celebratory mood into a paralytic nightmare in seconds.

"They were rigged to release on impact," Miller noted, crouched low with a magnifying glass. He noticed a faint, sweet scent clinging to the piñata’s remains—not sugar, but . "Silvio, who provided the 'candy' filling?"

"It was supposed to be a standard retirement bash for Councilman Vane," Silvio wheezed, clutching a broken papier-mâché limb. "A custom-made piñata. Shaped like a golden treasury chest. But when Vane took the first swing..."

"Let me guess," Miller sighed, leaning back. "It wasn't filled with saltwater taffy."

Miller found the delivery slip under a tray of untouched shrimp cocktails. The return address was a derelict lab in the industrial district. It wasn't a prank gone wrong; it was a targeted assassination. Vane had been lobbying for stricter environmental regulations on the very labs that created these hybrids.

Councilman Vane was currently frozen in a mid-swing pose, his face a mask of horrified stasis.

Should we continue the story by having Miller , or should we focus on the chaos at the hospital as they try to find an antidote?

The neon sign of the flickered, casting a sickly green glow over Detective Miller’s desk. He wasn't surprised when the local party planner, Silvio, burst in, covered in what looked like iridescent glitter and high-velocity trauma.