Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKA4F1Q7GHAKRR9V8XWW8E2

Night pressed against the back of the warehouse like a curious cat. Molly and Bill crouched behind a stack of empty crates, their breath fogging in the cold air. The charity event downstairs hummed with laughter, clowns balancing on stilts and a chorus of party horns that never seemed to end. The children's party was painted in purples and blues, balloons bobbing above tables heavy with plastic castles and cookie-cutout suns. In the shadows, Molly checked a dented tote bag, the kind that had once held picnic supplies and eight chocolate bars—now repurposed into treasure. Bill gnawed at a gumdrop, the only candy he trusted to be both tasty and silent. 'We should probably go over the plan,' Molly whispered, voice a sly lullaby aimed at the giggling chaos downstairs. 'One hiccup and this becomes a story for the neighborhood newsletter.' Bill shrugged, oversized jacket sleeves flapping like defeated sails. 'Relax. We’ve got a map drawn on a napkin and a yellow highlighter with a map-crayon smile.' Mischief smelled delicious. Molly: We need a quiet entrance through the kids' bounce castle. Bill: Right, slide past the cotton candy and glitter guards tonight. Molly: The presents are stacked like candy canes in a winter storm for small pranks. Bill: The car will be parked three blocks away, and quiet. Molly: We'll swap our plans with a squeaky rubber chicken decoy. Bill: A goose of a plan, as loud as a street parade. Molly: We enter through the janitor's closet, cause the music stops. Bill: Then we crown ourselves with party hats for camouflage. Molly: Remember the rule: never rustle the wrapping paper stacks. Bill: Got it, and if anyone asks, we're volunteers from entertainment. Molly: We'll snag the expensive ones first, then the others. Bill: Then we sprint to the getaway car like gazelles. Molly: Speed matters, but misdirection matters more, so improvisation, darling. Bill: If a toy dinosaur roars, we smile and keep strolling. Molly: And if the party fairy glitters us, we vanish gently. With the last line of their exchange hanging in the chilly air, Molly and Bill slipped back into the shadows. Cigarette smoke from a neighbor curled toward the loading dock, and somewhere a piano wheezed out a note that sounded like a warning. They moved like actors rehearsing a farce, each step deliberate, each breath a tiny dare to fate. The party downstairs carried on—laughter, clang, a siren of ice cream trucks—unaware of two amateurs tiptoeing past crates labeled fragile and unicorn. Molly checked the tote, found it lighter than she remembered, which meant they might have overestimated their loot and underestimated their appetite for chaos. Bill rummaged through a stash of mismatched gloves and a broken yo-yo, muttering that confidence is the best disguise and the worst alibi. They paused at the alley mouth, counting imaginary stars, then grinned. They would retreat to their safe house, a coffee shop with a sign and a dog-eared copy of a burglar manual taped under the counter. The night seemed to approve, flickering with a wind and a wink from the streetlight.