Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK2K6CA0ABH2HXAWEM9YYAG

The rain slicked the alleyway behind the community center, reflecting the neon glow of the birthday banner hanging crookedly in the window. Molly adjusted her ski mask, which was far too large and kept slipping over her eyes, while Bill tried to wedge a crowbar into the service door with the grace of a drunken walrus. "This is it," Molly whispered, her voice muffled by the wool. "The ultimate score." Bill grunted, finally popping the latch. "Are you sure about this, Mol? Stealing from kids feels wrong. Like kicking a puppy but with more glitter." "Think of the resale value, Bill. Unopened LEGO sets? Limited edition dolls? It's a goldmine wrapped in colorful paper." "But they're children," Bill hissed, pushing the door open. "They believe in magic. We'd be stealing their magic." "We're stealing plastic toys they'll break in an hour. Now move." They crept into the hallway, the air thick with the scent of cheap pizza and sugar frosting. Balloons drifted lazily against the ceiling like colorful prisoners. Molly pointed toward the main hall where a mountain of wrapped boxes sat beneath a banner that read Happy 7th Birthday Timmy. "Look at that haul," Molly breathed, her eyes widening behind the mask. "That's at least three hundred dollars in retail value." "That's a My Little Pony collection," Bill noted, shivering. "Do you know how hard it is to fence those? The market is saturated." "Details, Bill. Details. We grab the big boxes first. Leave the socks and underwear." "What if there's a clown?" Bill asked, his voice trembling slightly. "I hate clowns. They know things." "There won't be a clown. It's a Tuesday night party for a seven-year-old. The budget barely covered the cake." "Famous last words," Bill muttered, stepping over a discarded party hat. "Remember the last job? The one with the gerbil?" "We don't talk about the gerbil incident." "I still have nightmares, Mol. The little guy had eyes like tiny judgmental marbles." "Focus! We have ten minutes before the parents come back from taking the cake photos." They reached the tree of gifts. Molly grabbed a large rectangular box, shaking it gently. "Sounds like a drone. High end." "Or a board game," Bill countered, picking up a lumpy sack. "This feels like socks. Definitely socks. Who gives socks to a seven-year-old? That's criminal in itself." "Put it in the bag anyway. Maybe they're superhero socks." "I feel sick," Bill groaned, shoving the sack into their duffel. "We're monsters. Actual monsters." "We're entrepreneurs," Molly corrected, snatching a shiny red box. "Now help me with this one. It's heavy." "It's probably a bicycle," Bill said, lifting the other end. "Why do parents buy bicycles indoors? It makes no sense." "Less talking, more lifting. We need to clear the top layer before we hit the small stuff." "What about the piñata?" Bill asked, glancing at the donkey-shaped object hanging nearby. "There's candy in there." "Candy melts. We stick to hard goods." "You're so cold, Mol. So calculating." "I'm hungry, Bill. There's a difference. Now let's go before someone hears us arguing about ethics in a room full of streamers." "Fine," Bill sighed, hoisting the duffel onto his shoulder. "But if I see a clown, I'm running. And I'm taking the LEGO set with me as severance pay." "Deal. Now move your feet before the magic wears off."