Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5GT8FQVFK0FAFVBY2566F

"Alright, run the plan by me again. My ears still hurt from the squeaky balloon animal demo," Bill said, rubbing his temple. "The target is a suburban home, the Johnson residence. The event is little Timmy Johnson's sixth birthday. Objective: extract all gift-wrapped assets," Molly stated. "Right. And the security?" "Negligible. One sleep-deprived parent, one over-sugared birthday boy, and approximately twelve miniature accomplices in Lightning McQueen t-shirts. Our window is during the cake-and-meltdown phase." Bill nodded. "Disguises?" "We pose as party entertainers. You're 'Grumpy the Clown.'" "I hate clowns." "That's why it's perfect. I'll be his harried assistant, 'Confetti,' maneuvering a large, hollow present-collection trunk." "Extraction?" "Load the trunk, wheel it to the 'clown car'—which is your actual car, Bill—and vanish before the piñata even swings." "What's the contingency for the parents?" "Misdirection. You'll accidentally-on-purpose release a dozen hyperactive puppies from the Johnson's garden shed. Chaos ensues. We profit." Bill sighed. "Stealing from kids, Molly. It feels… low." "These are luxury gifts, Bill! A tiny electric car, a junior virtual reality headset… We're practically redistributing wealth." "To ourselves." "Semantics. Are you in or not? The party starts in an hour." "I'm in. But I’m not making balloon poodles."