Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK2R2Y0SGH79SF5AF5GFTBR

The rain slicked the pavement outside the Community Center, reflecting the garish neon sign that promised a Magical Unicorn Birthday Bash. Molly crouched behind a overflowing dumpster, adjusting her black balaclava which kept sliding down over her eyes. She peered through the gap in the fence where the chain had been conveniently cut, presumably by previous, less ambitious criminals or perhaps just a very determined squirrel. Bill stood beside her, shivering violently in a tuxedo that was three sizes too small, clutching a roll of industrial-grade duct tape like it was a sacred relic. "We can't just walk in there," Bill whispered, his teeth chattering a rhythmic beat against the cold. "There are clowns, Mol. Actual clowns. They see everything." Molly rolled her eyes, the fabric of her mask bunching up. "Stop being dramatic. Clowns are distracted by their own absurdity. It is their greatest weakness. We go in, we grab the pile of wrapped boxes near the cake table, and we vanish before anyone notices the piñata has been looted." "The piñata is full of candy, not gold bars," Bill pointed out, gesturing wildly with the duct tape. "And those boxes contain juice pouches and socks. I saw the mother loading the car earlier. She bought bulk socks, Molly. Bulk." "Socks are liquid assets if you know the right fence," Molly insisted, pulling a pair of bolt cutters from her utility belt. "Besides, the hostess mentioned a special guest. A magician. Magicians always have expensive props. Coins, silk scarves, maybe a rabbit with a microchip implant. We are not leaving empty-handed." Bill let out a long, suffering sigh that fogged up his glasses. "This is the lowest we have sunk. Last week we were casing the museum. Now we are targeting six-year-olds. My mother warned me about this life." "Your mother also thought you were an accountant," Molly reminded him, snapping the chain with a satisfying crunch. "Move it. The window of opportunity is closing. The cake cutting is in ten minutes. That is when the adults turn their backs to sing." They scrambled through the gap, landing softly in a patch of wet mulch. The muffled sounds of children screaming with joy and a off-key rendition of Happy Birthday drifted through the thick walls. Molly pressed her ear against the side door, listening for the distinct squeak of squeaky shoes or the jingle of bells. "Do you hear that?" she asked, her voice barely audible. "I hear impending doom," Bill replied, gripping her arm. "And is that bubble machine noise? I hate bubble machines. They make the floor slippery." "Focus, Bill. We enter through the coat room. It connects to the main hall. You create a distraction near the balloons. I will secure the loot." "What kind of distraction?" "Pop a few balloons. Maybe tell a joke. Be the clown they expect, but without the makeup." Bill looked at her with pure betrayal in his eyes. "I am not telling jokes to toddlers. I have dignity." "You have a tuxedo from a discount bin and a fear of bubbles," Molly countered, picking the lock on the side door with practiced ease. "Diversity is dead. Get ready to run." The door clicked open, revealing a hallway lined with tiny raincoats and oversized boots. The air smelled of sugar, wet dog, and desperation. Molly signaled forward, her heart pounding not from fear, but from the sheer absurdity of their latest scheme. Bill took a deep breath, squared his narrow shoulders, and stepped into the lion's den, ready to face the most dangerous criminals of all: sugar-fueled children.