Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5X61RVZQ18YD20FGZPKJF

The warehouse loft smelled of dust and desperation. Molly, perched on a crate labeled ‘Fragile: Porcelain Owls’, squinted at the blueprint Bill had slapped onto a rickety card table. It wasn’t a blueprint for a bank or a museum. It was a colorful, cartoonish map of ‘Sunny Meadows Community Hall, Room B.’ “A children’s birthday party,” she said, her voice flat. “You dragged me away from a perfectly good stakeout of that armored car route for a six-year-old’s birthday party.” Bill, a mountain of a man trying to look inconspicuous in a pink polo shirt two sizes too small, jabbed a sausage-like finger at the map. “Not *any* party. Devon Wellington’s party. His daddy owns Wellington Nanotech. The gifts aren’t going to be socks and picture books, Moll. We’re talking limited-edition hoverboards, prototype gaming consoles, solid gold rattles for the baby cousins. It’s a low-risk, high-reward scenario.” “The risk is my dignity, Bill. Our crew last hit the Cartier vault.” “And we got pinched because the laser grid was upgraded!” Bill protested. “Here, the security is one overworked DJ and a clown named ‘Toodles’ who’s probably nursing a hangover. Look,” he pointed to a square labeled ‘Presents Table’. “Perimeter is soft. Primary obstacles are sugar-hyped minors and a piñata shaped like a unicorn. Extraction is through the rear kitchen door during the… what’s it called… the ‘Cha-Cha Slide’.” Molly rubbed her temples. “And our cover? We can’t exactly blend in. You look like a confused polar bear at a luau.” “I’m ‘Uncle Bill’, family friend. You’re ‘Auntie Molly’. We arrive bearing a large, empty gift bag. We mingle. We do the chicken dance. When the chaos peaks, we fill the bag and exit. Clean, quiet, professional.” “We’re going to steal from children, Bill. On their birthday. That’s… that’s a special kind of low.” “We’re not stealing *from* them,” Bill corrected, with the air of a philosopher. “We’re stealing *for* them. We’re teaching them a valuable life lesson about disappointment and the transient nature of material possessions. It’s practically a public service.” Molly stared at him. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant coo of pigeons. She looked back at the map, at the simple layout, the lack of alarms, the sheer absurdity of it all. A slow smile spread across her face. “The chaos peak. You’re sure it’s during the ‘Cha-Cha Slide’?” “Guaranteed. My intel from the party planner is solid. It’s when parental vigilance drops to zero.” “Fine,” she sighed, the sound laced with amused resignation. “But we’re not doing the chicken dance. I have a line. And we need a bigger bag. A *much* bigger bag. If we’re going to commit felonious holiday theft, we’re not leaving behind the goody bags. I hear they’ve got full-sized candy bars this year.” Bill’s grin was triumphant. “See? Now you’re thinking like a professional. Operation Sugar Plum is a go.” “Operation Sugar Plum? Really?” “It’s festive!” he insisted, folding the map with surprising delicacy. “Now, help me pick a tie. Do I go with balloons or little race cars?” Molly just shook her head, already mentally inventorying the quickest route from the presents table to the kitchen, a strange, giddy feeling bubbling up beneath her professional thief’s cynicism. It was, she had to admit, the most original score she’d ever planned.