Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNFMD7TCRWDST4PQVE1RFTS

The rain drummed against the cracked window of Molly's cramped hideout, a converted storage closet that smelled of stale popcorn and ambition. Bill lounged on a busted armchair, his feet propped on a folding table covered in neon sticky notes shaped like cartoon rockets. In front of them, a hand-drawn map of the Maplewood Community Center was pinned to the wall, its crayon blue walls and glittery streamers a sharp contrast to the thieves' grimy scheme. The annual Sunshine Squad birthday bash was slated for Saturday afternoon, a sugar-fueled extravaganza where dozens of kids would converge for games, cake, and a mountain of wrapped gifts. Molly traced a finger along the perimeter, whispering the details she had gathered from a sneaky glance at the parent's flyer. She had scouted the location the day before, noting the positions of the bounce house, the face‑painting station, and the looming inflatable castle that blocked the back entrance. Bill, ever the optimist, claimed that a disguised clown costume would grant them unrestricted access, but Molly rolled her eyes, pointing out that the party’s schedule was tighter than a jar of pickles. Molly: "We can't just stroll in wearing a clown nose. The parents will be scanning the guest list like hungry hawks." Bill: "That's why I brought these invitations. Look, they have the kid's name, a cartoon dinosaur, and an RSVP stamp." Molly: "Nice, but problem is gift heap. It's stacked near the stage, next to the DJ booth. DJ will blast 'Happy Birthday' on repeat." Bill: "We time it with cake cutting. When lights dim for candles, we slip behind curtain, swipe the bags, and vanish into night right now." Molly: "And if a kid spots us? We'll claim we're the magical present elves, here to deliver the gifts to the 'special vault' in the back." Bill: "Perfect. We'll wear those little elf hats. Kids love elves, they'll think it's a surprise." Molly: "Just remember, no one gets hurt. We steal presents, not birthdays." Bill: "Agreed. Now let's test the zip‑line we borrowed from the elementary school gym." Molly nodded, slipping the invitations into a hidden pocket of her jacket. Bill pulled out a battered toolbox and began calibrating the zip‑line, whispering the numbers like a prayer. The rain had stopped, and the streetlights flickered, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. They rehearsed their moves in slow motion, counting steps, timing the music cue, and testing the weight of a bulging gift bag. As the hour approached, they slipped out of the hideout, the night air cool against their skin. The community center loomed ahead, its colorful banners fluttering like promise. With a final glance at each other, they merged into the crowd of parents and balloons, ready to turn a child's celebration into their own personal jackpot. Bill whispered a countdown while Molly adjusted the tiny earpiece in her hair, a relic from a past heist that still crackled with static. The street was silent except for distant car hums and occasional laughter from nearby houses in the night.