Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5DWESKT5Q749HX64QW9SM

The air in the dingy basement was thick with the scent of stale coffee and poorly concealed desperation. Molly tapped her fingers against the folding table, staring at the hand-drawn blueprint of the Wentworth estate like it held the secrets of the universe. Or at least the secret to getting a decent payday. Bill leaned back in his chair, legs propped up on the table, crunching on a stale bag of cheese puffs. "So, let me get this straight. We're robbing a kid's birthday party?" Molly scowled. "Not just any kid's party. *The* kid's party. Tommy Wentworth. His dad owns half the tech companies in the city, and that little brat gets presents worth more than our last three jobs combined." Bill wiped orange dust on his pants. "You sure this ain’t a step down from our usual gigs? I mean, last month we lifted a diamond necklace from a gala. Now we’re swiping action figures and gold-plated rattles?" "Think bigger, Bill. These aren’t just toys. We’re talking limited-edition *everything.* Signed baseballs, tiny designer suits, a solid gold pacifier—probably." She pointed at the blueprint. "And the best part? The security’s a joke. One rent-a-cop at the gate, a nanny who’s probably glued to her phone, and a dog that’s more fluff than fury." Bill squinted. "You sure about the dog?" "Positive. It’s a Pomeranian named Mr. Snuffles." He snorted. "Right, terrifying." Molly smirked. "Exactly. We slip in during the chaos—kids screaming, cake flying, parents desperately pretending they’re having fun. Grab the gifts, load ‘em up, and vanish before anyone notices." Bill scratched his chin. "What’s our exit strategy? We can’t exactly bolt through a crowd of sugar-crazed six-year-olds." "Ah, that’s the beauty of it. The Wentworths have a service entrance for caterers. No one pays attention to staff. We dress up like clown waiters, blend in, and boom—clean getaway." Bill groaned. "Clown waiters? You’re joking." "Foolproof disguise. No one looks a clown in the eye. It’s basically invisibility." Bill tossed the empty chip bag aside. "Alright, but if we get caught, I’m blaming you for the clown thing." Molly rolled her eyes. "Deal. Now, you handle the van. I’ll fake a catering order. And Bill?" "Yeah?" "Try not to eat all the evidence this time." He grinned. "No promises." The plan was stupid. The plan was reckless. The plan was *perfect.*