Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5J5C7RRYEE4QEMHD3ND95

Molly traced a finger over the crayon-smeared invitation. “The target is a five-year-old named Timmy. His weakness is cake.” Bill frowned at the schematic she’d drawn on a napkin. “The perimeter is a nightmare. Balloon arches, a bouncy castle… it’s a non-lethal fortress. Our entry point is the side gate during the piñata chaos.” He shuddered. “I hate clowns.” “The clown is our inside man,” Molly said, tapping a photo of a despondent-looking man in a rainbow wig. “He’s bitter about his career. He’ll create a diversion involving six doves and a malfunctioning handkerchief.” Bill nodded, studying the exfiltration route. “We load the loot into the pedal-powered ice cream truck. It’s inconspicuous.” He paused. “What about the noise? Children are unpredictable.” “We’re not silencing a vault, Bill. We’re grabbing gift bags. The real challenge is the wrapping paper. It’s crinkly.” She held up a tiny, glittery sweater. “Our disguises. We blend in as eccentric relatives.” Bill eyed the sequined monstrosity. “This is a downgrade from the Frankfurt job.” “The Frankfurt diamonds didn’t have a gift receipt. This is clean work. In and out before the magician pulls a rabbit from his hat.” “I still hate clowns,” Bill muttered, pulling on the sweater. It was very, very tight.