Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5NBD84DB6BH0131B7KBFN

The air in the rented lock-up was thick with the smell of stale oil and broken dreams. Maps and schematics were spread across a rickety card table, held down at the corners by a half-empty bottle of whiskey and a chipped ceramic gnome of questionable provenance. Molly, her fiery red hair tied back in a severe bun, tapped a perfectly manicured nail on a glossy, unnervingly cheerful invitation. “The target is a seven-year-old’s birthday party. Little Emily Vanderbilten-Smythe. Theme: Enchanted Forest.” Bill, a man built like a friendly refrigerator, squinted at a grainy photo of a sprawling suburban mansion. “Security?” “Standard suburban perimeter. A overly-trimmed privet hedge, a gate with a latch a toddler could open, and a neurotic Labrador named Mr. Snuffles who can be neutralized with a single slice of processed cheese.” Molly’s tone was crisp, professional. Bill scratched his stubbled chin. “Right. And the objective is the… presents?” “All of them. Wrapped, untraceable, high-value loot. It’s the perfect score, Bill. No lasers, no pressure plates, no cynical ex-MI6 security consultants. Just distracted parents and a sugar-crazed mob of tiny, noisy humans.” “I don’t know, Molls,” Bill muttered, shifting his weight and making the folding chair groan in protest. “It feels… wrong. Stealing from a kid. What’s next, nicking candy from a baby? We have a code.” “We have a code against hurting people, which we won’t. We’re liberating overpriced plastic from a future trust-fund adolescent who will get a replacement pony by Tuesday.” She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. “This isn’t a heist, Bill. It’s logistics. In, out, unseen.” “Unseen? Dressed as what?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at the “disguises” hanging on a rusted nail. “A six-foot-four fairy?” He pointed to the rack where a glittery, pink tutu and wings hung next of a lumpy, brown costume with a sad, felt acorn for a head. “You’re not a fairy, you’re an oak tree. I’m the divertissement.” Molly held up the tutu. “I’ll create a spectacle—a magical dance of distraction near the bouncy castle. You, as the silent, stoic tree, will amble towards the gift table, which will be conveniently located near the patio doors. You bundle the entire loot into your hollow trunk-costume, and we exfiltrate during the cake-serving chaos.” Bill picked up the acorn head. It smelled faintly of mothballs and regret. “Amble? Molls, I can barely see out of the eye-holes. What if I trip over a toddler?” “Then you say, ‘Ho ho, little sapling, the forest is a dangerous place!’ It’s immersive theatre. They’ll love it.” He sighed, a deep, rumbling sound of defeat. “The getaway vehicle?” “The ice cream truck we ‘acquired.’ It’s the perfect cover. We just circle the block playing ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ until the job is done.” Bill was silent for a long moment, staring into the abyss of the ceramic gnome’s vacant smile. He finally looked up, a grim resolve on his face. “Do you think they’ll have those little sausage rolls on sticks?” “It’s a high-end operation, Bill. There will be miniature quiches.” A slow grin spread across his face. “Right. I’m in. But I’m keeping the acorn head. It’s growing on me.”