Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK1XHT2XDP05KTD48C86KPS

The rain lashed against the grimy window of the van, blurring the neon sign of the bouncy castle rental company across the street. Inside, the air smelled of stale coffee and desperate ambition. Molly adjusted her black beanie, pulling it low over her eyes as she studied the blueprint spread across the dashboard. It was a crude drawing of the Miller residence, complete with stick figures representing security guards that looked suspiciously like angry broccoli. "We go in through the doggy door," Molly whispered, tapping the paper with a gloved finger. Bill squinted at the diagram, his face pale in the glow of a flickering streetlamp. "The doggy door? Molly, that thing is built for a Chihuahua. I have the shoulders of a linebacker who missed leg day for a decade." "Then suck it in," she snapped, rolling up the schematic. "The main entrance is rigged with motion sensors connected to a clown horn. One false step and the whole neighborhood knows we're coming." "A clown horn?" Bill groaned, rubbing his temples. "This is insane. We are professional criminals. We have robbed banks. We have lifted diamonds from under the noses of royal guards. Now we are sneaking into a six-year-old's birthday party to stealing plastic dinosaurs and gift cards to Chuck E. Cheese." "It's not just gift cards, Bill. Think of the cash. The gold-wrapped chocolates. The sheer volume of unregistered wealth hidden inside those tissue-paper-lined bags. It's a fortress of innocence, and we are the wolves at the gate." "The wolves are going to get stuck in a tunnel designed for a Pomeranian," Bill muttered, looking out at the pouring rain. "And what about the entertainment? The blueprint says there's a magician." Molly froze. Her hand hovered over the door handle. "A magician? Did you say a magician?" "Yeah. 'The Great Zamboni.' He does balloon animals and card tricks." "Card tricks are dangerous," she hissed, her voice dropping an octave. "They rely on misdirection. If he sees us, he could make us disappear. Or worse, he could turn us into doves. I hate birds, Bill. They look at you with such judgment." "You're terrified of a guy in a sequined vest making a rabbit out of a hat?" "I'm terrified of the unknown variables! Do you know how many times a heist has gone south because of a party clown? It's statistically significant." Molly took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure. "Look, here's the plan. You go in first. You're smaller than you look when you hunch." "I am not hunching into a birthday party," Bill argued, crossing his arms. "If I get caught, I'm telling them you made me do it. I'll say you threatened to steal my collection of vintage spoons." "They won't care about your spoons when they see you trying to fit a duffel bag full of LEGO sets into your jacket. Just move. The cake cutting is in twenty minutes. That's when the guards—the parents—are distracted by sugar crashes and flash photography." Bill sighed, a long, rattling sound that echoed in the small space. He opened the van door, letting in a gust of cold, wet air. "If I get turned into a balloon animal, I'm haunting you." "Less talking, more thieving," Molly commanded, pulling her mask up. "Remember, no taking the cake. We're here for the loot, not the calories." They slid out into the rain, two silhouettes creeping toward the suburban house that glowed with the warm, deceptive light of childhood joy. The lawn was littered with discarded streamers, looking like the aftermath of a colorful explosion. Molly signaled for Bill to drop to his knees near the tiny plastic door installed at the base of the back entryway. "On three," she mouthed. Bill shook his head vigorously but lowered himself into the mud. He looked less like a master criminal and more like a man about to apologize to a garden gnome. As Molly counted down on her fingers, the sound of children screaming with delight drifted from inside, a chaotic symphony of pure energy that made both thieves flinch. They were walking into the lion's den, if the lions were wearing party hats and demanding juice boxes.