Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5BQ5QRHF4F353XWKRSFXX

Molly spread the crayon-drawn map across the weathered table. The target was a suburban bungalow, currently housing the seventh birthday party of one Timothy Perkins. Bill squinted at the crude diagram, his brow furrowed in concentration usually reserved for museum alarms, not a piñata. “Clown patrol here,” Molly whispered, tapping a sketch of a man with oversized shoes. Bill nodded, adjusting an imaginary tie. “Distraction plan?” Their operation was meticulous. Molly would enter via the garden slide during the cake frenzy, while Bill, disguised as a distant uncle, would disable the watchdog—a geriatric terrier named Mr. Wiggles. The loot, wrapped in shiny paper, would be extracted via a getaway wagon disguised as a recycling bin. Molly reviewed the inventory list: action figures, glitter art kits, a junior chemistry set. She imagined the chaos: sticky fingers, spilled juice, the deafening chorus of childish glee. It was the perfect cover. Bill practiced his “jolly relative” smile in a compact mirror; it looked more like a grimace. They shared a solemn, professional nod. This was their most audacious caper yet, a symphony of misdirection targeting the ultimate vault: a living room strewn with wrapping paper and innocent joy. The clock ticked toward zero hour.