Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK32YE11N89SGD8E3EY0CW5

The rain hammered against the corrugated roof of the garden shed, drowning out the distant squeals of six-year-olds engaged in a brutal game of musical chairs. Inside the cramped space, the air smelled of damp earth and expired fertilizer, a fitting atmosphere for two career criminals contemplating their most dubious target yet. Molly adjusted her black turtleneck, which was far too hot for the humid July evening, while Bill fiddled with a pair of oversized clown shoes he had insisted were essential for silent movement. They crouched behind a stack of plastic lawn chairs, peering through a slat in the fence at the brightly lit backyard where a mountain of wrapped boxes sat beneath a inflatable castle shaped like a dragon. "This is insane," Molly whispered, her voice tight with the kind of anxiety usually reserved for defusing bombs, not raiding birthday parties. "We are grown adults. We have résumés. We have actually broken into banks." Bill shushed her aggressively, nearly knocking over a bag of potting soil in the process. He pointed a gloved finger toward the prize. "Look at that haul, Mols. That is pure, unadulterated profit. No lasers, no pressure plates, just a tired mom checking her phone and a clown who looks like he is one bad balloon animal away from a breakdown." "The security is the parents," she hissed, watching a father juggle three plates of cake while simultaneously wiping frosting off a toddler's face. "They are everywhere. And they are vicious when it comes to their offspring's property. Have you ever seen a mother defend a gift bag? It is primal." "Exactly," Bill countered, his eyes gleaming with a manic light that made Molly question their partnership for the hundredth time that week. "They won't suspect us. Who robs a birthday party? It is the perfect crime. We go in, we grab the Lego sets and the remote-control cars, and we are out before they even cut the cake." "We need a distraction," Molly said, rubbing her temples as a headache began to bloom behind her eyes. "Something big. Something that draws every adult eye away from the present table." Bill reached into his utility belt and pulled out a small, rubber chicken. He squeezed it, producing a pathetic squeak that was immediately lost in the wind. "I was thinking we release the hamster." "You brought a hamster?" Molly stared at him, her mouth slightly agape. "Where was this in the plan? When did we decide to involve livestock?" "It is not just a hamster," Bill corrected, holding up the small cage with reverence. "It is a chaos agent. We let it loose near the punch bowl. Everyone scrambles to catch the furry fugitive. In the confusion, we swoop in like ninjas." "Ninjas wearing clown shoes?" Molly asked, gesturing to his feet with undisguised skepticism. "The shoes are for traction on the grass," Bill insisted, stomping one foot to demonstrate the lack of silence. "Now, are we doing this or not? Because I really want that deluxe train set." Molly took a deep breath, listening to the happy chaos of the party. She looked at the mountain of gifts, then at Bill's earnest, slightly deranged face. "Fine," she sighed, pulling her ski mask down over her nose. "But if I get caught, I am telling them you forced you to bring the hamster." "Deal," Bill grinned, opening the cage door. "Let's go make some noise."