Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM62NHW1XN855WFJBKAR5MZ

The air in the van was thick with the smell of stale coffee and questionable life choices. Molly squinted at the blueprint, a crayon drawing of a suburban house taped to the dashboard. Bill, polishing a grappling hook with a silk handkerchief, finally broke the silence. "This is the big one, Moll. The Peterson job. Security is tight." Molly didn’t look up. "It's a six-year-old's birthday party, Bill. The only threat is a hyperactive clown and a sugar-crazed horde." "Precisely! The perfect cover. But our ingress is critical. I say we go in through the skylight after neutralizing the clown." "Or," Molly sighed, "we just ring the doorbell like the caterers we're supposed to be. The wigs are in the back." Bill waved a dismissive hand. "Amateur hour. I've rigged a distraction: a piñata filled with instant oatmeal. Chaos on a rope." "Oatmeal?" "It's non-lethal and highly demoralizing. Trust me. While they're slipping in the goo, we hit the presents. In and out, like ghosts." "You mean in and out like two middle-aged people dressed as giant cupcakes?" "Exactly," Bill said, pulling two garish costumes from a duffel bag. "The perfect disguise. Now, the exit strategy involves a zipline from the jungle gym..." Molly just put her head in her hands, the plan—and her sanity—hanging by a thread.