Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9H508ZY8A7MVV2NNV7ZPV

The abandoned strip mall smelled faintly of old popcorn and newer regret. Molly paced between a shuttered nail salon and the discount karate studio, trying to ignore the cheery banner in the next unit that read, “Princess Penelope’s Perfect Party Palace!” in aggressively pink letters. Bill knelt on the cracked linoleum, spreading out diagrams and a crumpled unicorn-themed invitation like sacred texts. He’d even brought highlighters. Criminality, but color-coded. "I cannot believe we are targeting a birthday party; have we officially run out today?" Molly said, stuffing her hands deeper into the pockets of her faux-leather jacket. Bill didn’t look up. His pen tapped the invitation in measured, larcenous beats. "Think about it: tiny guards, distracted parents, and a cake providing perfect cover for chaos." Molly leaned over his shoulder. He’d drawn a crude map of the banquet hall, arrows pointing from “Entrance” to “Gift Mountain” with the zeal of a kindergarten general. She kicked a discarded glitter tiara out of her path, watching it skitter toward the cardboard ninja cutout in the karate window. "The guest list says eight-year-olds; eight-year-olds cry like sirens when you touch their stuff, though." "Relax, we blend in, grab the presents, and leave before anyone notices the missing glitter." He drew a dotted line from “Bouncy Castle Zone” to a stick figure labeled “You.” A second stick figure pushed a suspiciously square stroller. "Your idea of blending in is wearing a pointy hat, calling yourself Uncle Confetti again." "Look, the invitation literally says costumes encouraged; I am honoring the theme and stealing responsibly." The stroller itself waited nearby, a secondhand contraption Molly had disinfected twice and still didn’t trust. Its undercarriage had been reinforced with plywood, duct tape, and optimism. "Explain the getaway plan again, preferably without references to balloon animals or interpretive jazz hands." "Simple: we enter with clown, you distract children, I relocate gifts into the decoy stroller." Molly stared at the stroller like it might protest. She could already picture Bill, deadpan, navigating a sea of frosting and chaos while kids smeared icing on his pant legs. "You bought a stroller for this job; do you realize your career has peaked today?" "My career peaks when we retire somewhere tropical, funded by loot wrapped in dinosaur paper." From behind the glass doors, faint squeals and off-key singing leaked into the empty corridor. Someone tested a microphone; it screeched, then boomed with the hollow confidence of party DJs everywhere. Bill folded his diagrams into a neat stack and tucked them into the diaper bag they were using as a tactical archive. He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves like a man about to attend a very strange job interview. Molly checked her watch, feeling the familiar electric buzz of impending catastrophe settle over her shoulders. Somewhere in there, a small human was about to have either the best or worst birthday of their life, depending on how efficient two underemployed thieves could be. She grabbed the stroller handles. Bill slung the diaper bag over his shoulder. Together they walked toward the glowing pink doors, two professionals on the strangest score of their dubious careers. As the first wobbly notes of “Happy Birthday” drifted out to meet them, Molly nudged Bill with her elbow. “Smile,” she muttered. “We’re about to rob a room full of children.” He did not smile. But he did adjust his paper party hat.