Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK316V2MBAFJQQS2NRJA4E4

The rain hammered against the corrugated metal roof of the abandoned warehouse, sounding like a thousand tiny drums played by an inept child. Molly adjusted her black balaclava, which was currently slipping over one eye, and glare at Bill. Bill was busy trying to fit a crowbar into his pocket, a maneuver that was failing spectacularly. "We are not doing this," Molly hissed, her voice tight with the kind of stress usually reserved for tax season. "It is a birthday party, Bill. For six-year-olds." Bill finally gave up on the crowbar and let it clatter to the concrete floor. He grinned, a expression that showed far too many teeth for someone planning a felony. "Think of the haul, Mols. Think of the LEGO sets. The remote-controlled cars. The sheer volume of sugary confectionery." "I am thinking about the fact that we will be breaking into a room full of toddlers and their hyper-vigilant mothers," Molly snapped, pacing the length of the damp room. "Do you have any idea how fast a mother moves when she suspects her child's gift bag is being tampered with? They are faster than ninjas. They are fueled by caffeine and protective rage." "That is exactly why we strike during the clown show," Bill said, nodding sagely as if he had just solved a complex mathematical equation. "Chaos. Distraction. Balloon animals everywhere. Nobody looks at the gift table when a man in oversized shoes is twisting a poodle out of a long yellow balloon." Molly stopped pacing and stared at him. "You want us to hide behind a clown? That is your master plan?" "It is flawless," Bill insisted, picking up the crowbar again and wiping imaginary dust off it. "We go in low, we grab the big boxes first. No time for small trinkets. We need the big ticket items. The tablets, the gaming consoles, those massive plush dinosaurs that cost more than my car." "Your car is a rusty bicycle, Bill," Molly pointed out, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "And what if a child sees us? What if they start crying? Then the parents come, then the police come, and we end up in a cell next to a guy who stole a single sock. Is that the legacy you want?" Bill waved a dismissive hand, nearly knocking over a stack of old newspapers. "Kids cry all the time. It is background noise. Besides, we wear the masks. We are ghosts. We are shadows. We are the nightmares that take away the birthday magic." "You are an idiot who wants to steal from a kindergarten class," Molly corrected, crossing her arms. "This is the lowest we have ever sunk. Remember the bank job? The museum? We had standards." "This is diversification," Bill argued, stepping closer and lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "The economy is tough, Molly. People are cutting back on luxury heists. But birthdays? Birthdays are recession-proof. Parents will go into debt for a themed cake and a bounce house. That means good loot." Molly sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to deflate her entire posture. She looked at the rain, then back at Bill's hopeful, ridiculous face. "If we do this, and I get taken down by a woman holding a plate of stale sheet cake, I am haunting you forever." "Deal," Bill said, extending a gloved hand. "Now, do we have the bag for the LEGO or do I need to use my shirt?" "We are using the bag, you moron," Molly grumbled, snatching the duffel from the corner. "Let's go get arrested by a security guard named Gary." "That is the spirit!" Bill cheered, opening the warehouse door into the storm. "To the bounce house!"