Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAX4X4RB3MMGKTRZ41DGMQ

Even the security cameras winked with holiday cheer, as if they believed in miracles and cookie crumbs. Molly checked her toolkit, a parade of duct tape and bubble wrap, promised competence and giggles in equal measure. Bill studied the route on a crumpled map, which wore more scribbles than a kindergarten art project. We practiced a quiet hush, the way capers breathe when the punchlines are loud and the stockings are hung. Across the fence, a chorus of carols rose from the party, trumpets wheezing and banners shouting 'Welcome, Guests'. The plan was to slip along the edge, enter a side door, and gather presents in a makeshift lair behind the punch bowl. Molly pictured the surprised smiles when the treasure finally reached its destination—friable, suspiciously ethical, entirely too gleeful. Bill checked the clock and tested a knot in his rope, which squeaked with self-importance. Night gulls wheeled above, and the streetlights hummed softly as if offering tips. The duo rehearsed their exit, then traded a glance that meant: on my signal, we pretend to admire the balloons from afar. "We enter at dusk, stash the gifts, exit via the kitchen." "Then we blame the blinking Santa and vanish forever."