Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKA1XFG235H2C7BGGTZETC8

Molly crouched in the shrubbery outside the community center, clutching a foldable bag like a champion of chaos. Bill juggled a cake-shaped decoy and a flashlight, grin creasing his tired face. They studied the banner announcing Happy Birthday in jaunty letters and a cluster of balloons bobbed, oblivious. Molly traced the layout with a gloved finger, plotting paths between pinatas and snack tables. Every present glowed under fluorescent pity, ribbons promising pocket change turned fortune. They whispered strategies with theatrical seriousness, treating party favors like jewels in a crown. Molly tapped Bill's shoulder and hushed a nearby dog with a sympathetic scratch. Molly: "Bags, masks, cake diversion, swift grabs, quiet exits, no witnesses." Bill's eyes gleamed; he checked his watch like a metronome for mischief. Bill: "We split loot evenly. Children sleep; adults clink. Minimal noise." Night swallowed their laughter as they slid toward the back door, rehearsing clumsy ballet steps. The plan smelled of sugar and adrenaline, of bravery forged in cheap wrapping paper. When the moment came they would move like courteous burglars—gentle, precise, apologetic—leaving empty stockings and perhaps a returned cupcake. They rehearsed whispers, practiced polite footsteps, and agreed on a single ridiculous exit signal together.