Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9SRD69NMRXWZNV0NFY6K3

Molly peered through the party window, eyes glittering like cheap tinsel. Bill balanced a backpack that had seen more cake than daylight. Inside, balloons bobbed and a cacophony of sugar and plastic warred with lullabies. They whispered schemes the way conspirators whisper about weather, methodically, as if theft required weather reports. The plan hinged on a nap schedule and a distracted magician. Molly brushed a strand of hair and grinned. Molly: "We grab the cake, then the gifts." Bill grunted approval and adjusted his gloves. Bill: "And the piñata too, quietly." Outside, a garden gnome looked accusatory. They rehearsed exits like tango steps. Molly: "Exit through the clown door." The clown door, an emergency flap decorated with a smiling face, seemed to hope for applause. Bill checked his watch and smirked. Bill: "No confetti ever." They melted into shadow, sneakers whispering criminal lullabies. By the hedge, Molly hummed a nursery rhyme as if it were an incantation. Bill wiped frosting from his glove with unnecessary care. The moon signed off on the conspiracy, a silver spectator. They practiced polite theft—no rips, no tantrums—cataloguing toys by value and squeakiness while moonlight conducted their amateur orchestra and giggled like thieves in training.