Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNFQWPZYJXBQCQ9FHM76JQ0

The afternoon light filtered through the grime‑covered window of the basement hideout, catching the dust motes swirling above a cluttered table. Maps of the community center were pinned to a corkboard, annotated in neon markers. Molly leaned over the schematics, a half‑empty bottle of soda sweating in her hand, while Bill sprawled on a cracked leather sofa, a bag of crisps balanced on his knee. Molly: 'Alright, Bill, we need a plan that doesn't land us in a bounce‑house jail.' Bill: 'We’ll masquerade as the entertainment—magician and rabbit. Kids will love the “magic bunny today.”' Molly: 'A rabbit at a kids' party? That’s adorable or a disaster waiting to happen.' Bill: 'We’ll tell them it’s a bunny. While they stare, we’ll swipe the presents unnoticed.' Molly: 'I’ll juggle glow‑sticks, pretend they’re enchanted. Parents will think it’s a safety demo, cool.' Bill: 'I’ll be the volunteer who carries gifts to the “storage”—our secret van parked nearby.' Molly: 'Van’s a pizza car. We’ll slip loot inside while driver pretends to take orders.' Bill: 'We’ll set a smoke bomb in the piñata. One whiff clears the room quickly.' Molly: 'Remember, we always leave the stuffed animals untouched. That’s the rule, no matter what.' Bill: 'Agreed. No plushies, unless they’re rare collector’s items. Then we’ll consider them truly loot.' The plan was simple in its absurdity: become the highlight of the party, then quietly empty the gift bags while the children chased bubbles. Molly practiced her juggling, tossing three glow‑sticks in a lazy arc that sputtered like tiny fireworks. Bill rehearsed his announcement voice, ensuring it sounded cheerful enough to convince a room full of sugar‑fueled six‑year‑olds that the “gift‑collection” was a legitimate part of the program. They had already secured a minivan painted to look like a cartoon pizza slice, the words “Slice of Fun” emblazoned on the side in bright orange. The driver, a retired crook known as Slicks, waited in the driver’s seat, engine running, back doors open. In the trunk, a stack of empty gift boxes waited to be filled, then sealed with a glittery ribbon that matched the party’s décor. The timing was crucial. The cake would be cut at two‑thirty, the presents opened at three‑ten. At three‑fifteen, as the birthday song faded, Molly would stage a “magical mishap” with the glow‑sticks, creating a brief cloud of colorful smoke. While the kids gasped, Bill would announce that the “gift‑collection team” needed to retrieve the presents for a “special surprise.” The parents, busy snapping photographs, would barely notice the swift transfer of bags into the pizza van. As the sun slipped behind the community center, Molly and Bill slipped out of the basement, the evening air full of promise. They high‑fived, the sound echoing faintly against the brick walls. Bill muttered, “Here’s to a birthday bash we’ll never forget,” and Molly replied, “Just keep the loot safe, and no one gets a tantrum.” They climbed into the pizza van, engine purring like a cat, and pulled away as streetlights flickered on.