Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK98EDVKW6TA6C1TV3YS3DP

Molly unfolded a glittery city map on the hood of their dented van. Bill’s clown wig sat beside a crowbar, shedding red curls like incriminating evidence. From the nearby park drifted squeals, pop music, and the sweet smell of buttercream—security systems for the morally vulnerable. Molly tapped the route: through the side gate, past the bouncy castle, straight to the gift table piled like a tiny dragon’s hoard. Bill practiced a silent tiptoe and nearly slipped on a sprinkle he’d tracked in. They listened for sirens; only a kazoo answered. He sighed, zipped shoes, and muttered a prayer to frosting. "Tonight's target is a six-year-old's party, Bill." "Finally, a crowd that screams before they call the cops." "We enter as clowns, grab gifts, and vanish in confetti." "I refuse balloon animals; my last giraffe looked like a worm." "No balloons. You'll carry the loot sack labeled 'Donations'." "Won't parents notice us stealing their kid's happiness?" "Parents are busy filming; they'll assume it's a magic trick." "What about the birthday boy? He bites." "Bribe him with cake, then swap the presents for decoys." "Decoys like what, exactly, besides my dignity?" "Empty boxes, rocks, and a polite note: 'Thanks for sharing, kid.'"