Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKB0NZTGQBJH93AQP47R5GZ

Behind the inflatable castle, Molly crouched in the shrubbery, glitter stuck to her black turtleneck like fairy dandruff. The muffled thump of party music pulsed through the backyard, punctuated by shrieking laughter and the occasional tragic honk of a dying balloon. "Explain to me again why we are robbing a birthday party, you festive sociopath tonight," she whispered. Beside her, Bill adjusted the unicorn party hat he’d jammed over his ski mask. It listed to one side like it had given up on life. "Low security, high sugar, and tiny witnesses easily distracted by balloons; it's a charity job," he said, peering over the hedge. Molly risked a look. On the patio, a magician wrestled with an uncooperative rabbit while a swarm of children chanted for cake. A mountain of brightly wrapped presents sat under a banner that read HAPPY 8TH BIRTHDAY, LIAM!!! in aggressive glitter font. "Charity usually means giving, Bill, not shoving gift bags into duffel bags like reverse Santa," she muttered. "Details, details. Think of it as redistribution of wealth from spoiled eight-year-olds to underfunded professionals," Bill said, patting the empty duffel slung at his side. A balloon drifted past, half-deflated, the word “FUN!” sagging hopelessly. Molly watched it float by like an omen. "I swear, if one of them cries, I’m invoicing you for lifelong emotional support payments," she said. "Relax. We'll be out before they finish butchering 'Happy Birthday' for the second time tonight," Bill replied. He checked his watch, as if they were on an actual schedule instead of the world’s weirdest crime spree. From inside the house exploded the unmistakable sound of a piñata being beaten into candy confetti. The kids’ shrieks rose another octave. "Okay, mastermind, run the plan once more, and this time skip the parts about frosting," Molly said. Bill pointed with a gloved finger like he was giving a lecture. "We stroll in posing as entertainers, snag the presents, then blame everything on a clown." Molly stared at him. A gust of wind carried the scent of pizza, sugar, and the faint desperation of overextended parents. "If there is a clown, I’m feeding you to it while I escape with dignity," she said. "Children fear clowns, not love them; they'll thank us for providing distraction and nightmare fuel," Bill said. "Also, worst case, we knock over the cake and run. Chaos is our ally." Molly exhaled slowly. Somewhere inside, a child started crying, then stopped abruptly, replaced by the bribe-rattle of someone promising extra cake. "Costumes?" she asked. Bill unzipped a second bag and produced two matching T-shirts that read PARTY ASSISTANT in Comic Sans. He handed her a rainbow wig. She stared at it like it had personally insulted her. "I’m not wearing that." "You absolutely are," Bill said. "Authenticity. You put that on, you can walk through any suburban security perimeter known to man." Reluctantly, she jammed the wig over her hair. Bill’s grin widened. "You look adorable," he said. "I look like cotton candy tried to assassinate me and almost succeeded," Molly replied. "Let’s go before I regain self-respect." They slipped through the side gate, emerging into the backyard with the casual confidence of people who totally belonged there and were not about to rob a child. Parents bustled around with paper plates; none of them spared Molly or Bill more than a harried glance. Someone thrust a tray of cupcakes into Molly’s hands. “Can you bring these out after the song?” the woman asked, already turning away. Molly blinked at the cupcakes, then at Bill. His eyes lit up. “See?” he whispered. “We’re invisible. Cupcake-level authority. We own this place.” Molly shifted the tray, sizing up the pile of presents one last time. “Fine,” she said. “Let’s ruin a birthday.”