Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5PKKRGCJA3HPQ30YK9V7V

The warehouse loft stank of stale coffee and failed ambitions. Dust motes danced in the single, slanting beam of light that cut across the large table. In the centre of that table, meticulously arranged with the gravity of a jewel heist, was the target: a large, brightly-coloured, hand-drawn map of a suburban backyard. Molly tapped a perfectly manicured finger on a square labelled ‘BOUNCE CASTLE’. “This is the primary choke point,” she stated, her voice low and serious. “The sugar-high will have peaked by 14:30 hours. The tiny, chaotic operatives will be converging on this structure. It’s the perfect diversion.” Bill stared at the map, his brow furrowed in a way that suggested immense physical strain. He was a man built for smashing windows, not navigating past a piñata. He pointed a thick, hesitant finger at a smaller, crudely drawn circle. “The… dog,” he said, the word sounding foreign and dangerous in his mouth. Molly sighed, a long-suffering sound she reserved exclusively for Bill’s profound lack of finesse. “That’s not a dog, Bill. That’s a garden gnome. The Schnauzer’s operational radius is limited to the sun porch, here.” She pointed to a different area. “Its weakness is those tiny, expensive, organic dog biscuits. A handful of those, and he’s neutralized. A non-factor.” “Right. The biscuits.” Bill shifted his weight, making the rickety wooden chair groan in protest. “And the… extraction? The loot’s gonna be bulky. We talking a full-size sleigh, or what?” “The vehicle is a non-standard, low-profile model. A red wagon.” Molly held up a photograph of a Radio Flyer. “High capacity, manoeuvrable, and it blends perfectly with the environment. Our exit is via the side gate, here, during the ‘Happy Birthday’ chorus. The acoustics will provide full audio cover.” Bill squinted, trying to keep up. “Right. The song. But what about the parents? The tall ones. They’re the real guards, aren’t they?” “The guardians are predictable,” Molly said, unfolding a second schematic—a timeline of the party’s events. “They operate on a strict schedule of nostalgia and slight regret. Phase One: Arrival chaos. Phase Two: Pizza. They will be immobilised by carbohydrates and small talk. Phase Three: Cake. This is our window. Their focus will be entirely on the cake, the candles, and preventing a seven-year-old named Aiden from putting his entire face in the frosting.” She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with tactical brilliance. “While they sing, you create a minor disturbance near the punch bowl. A spilled cup. I will move to the present table, under the pretense of adjusting a bow. I’ll transfer the gifts to the wagon, which you will have prepositioned behind the hedge.” Bill puffed out his cheeks, absorbing the plan. “So… I’m the punch bowl guy?” “You are the crucial diversionary element,” Molly corrected, though her tone suggested ‘punch bowl guy’ was also acceptable. He nodded slowly, a grin spreading across his face. “I can do that. I can spill punch like a pro.” He looked at the colourful map, then back at Molly, a flicker of doubt returning. “You sure this is worth it? I mean, it’s a bunch of action figures and plastic jewellery.” Molly’s expression turned steely. “It’s the principle, Bill. The sheer, beautiful audacity of it. They’ll check their vaults, their museums, their casinos… but a child’s birthday party? The one place no one expects a heist. We’re not just thieves. We’re artists.” She looked at the drawing of the bounce castle, a predatory smile on her lips. “Now, let’s go over the cake protocol again. The frosting is a wild card we cannot underestimate.”