Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5J9PX75Z72H37YXQ05N8Y

Molly traced a pudgy finger across the birthday party flyer, the glitter smudging under her touch. “Balloon animals are a structural weakness,” she stated, pointing to a sketched poodle. Beside her, Bill polished a monocle that served no corrective purpose. The warehouse loft was their war room. A diagram of the suburban backyard was pinned between peeling posters of famous art heists. Their tools lay in orderly rows: wire cutters for ribbon, a silent leaf-blower to disperse nosy parents, and a harness to lower Bill, the smaller of the two, down the chimney they presumed existed. Bill adjusted his fake moustache. “The cake is a seven-layer vanilla fortress. It demands respect.” He proposed a diversion involving a rogue piñata and three grams of industrial-grade glitter. Molly nodded, her eyes on the primary objective: a mountain of wrapped boxes near the swing set. She envisioned the haul: plastic treasures, gift cards, the whispered legend of a limited-edition action figure. It was petty, but glorious. “Remember,” she whispered, the only sound in the dusty room. “No waking the toddler. That’s when they get… unpredictable.” Bill gave a solemn nod. The clock ticked toward naptime. Operation Sugar Rush was a go.