Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPMAXYT8RS0BAF20Z7WP24

The dim glow of a flickering streetlamp cast long shadows across the alley where Molly and Bill huddled over a crumpled party invitation. Molly adjusted her oversized Santa hat, the jingle bells sewn into the rim tinkling with every movement. “Alright, let’s run this one more time,” Molly said, tapping the invitation. “We’re crashing the Whitmore’s annual *Winter Wonderland Extravaganza*—” “Which is just a fancy way of saying ‘rich kids getting too many toys,’” Bill interrupted, stuffing a handful of candy canes into his pocket. “I mean, who gives out *gold-plated* yo-yos? That’s not a toy, that’s a flex.” Molly ignored him. “We go in as Mr. and Mrs. Claus—” “Which, by the way, is *not* my best look,” Bill grumbled, tugging at the fake white beard scratching his chin. “I look like a disgruntled mall Santa who just found out his milk and cookies were gluten-free.” “Focus. We mingle, we charm, we *liberate* the presents before the piñata gets bust open. In and out, clean as a whistle.” Bill snorted. “A whistle? Molly, we’re talking about stealing from a room full of sugar-high six-year-olds. This is more like *Mission: Impossible* meets *Lord of the Flies*.” “Dramatic. The kids’ll be too busy screaming over cake to notice us swapping the gift tags with fakes. By the time they realize their *limited edition* whatever-it-is is just a box of rocks, we’re long gone.” Bill held up a finger. “Question: What if one of them *opens* a present early? You ever seen a kid unwrap a *rock*? That’s a one-way ticket to Trauma Town. We’ll have a generation of therapy patients on our hands.” Molly rolled her eyes. “Then we *don’t let them open presents early*. You distract them. Tell ‘em Santa’s got a *secret game*—last one to touch the mistletoe gets a lump of coal.” “Oh, *great*, now I’m the fun police *and* the Grinch.” Bill sighed, adjusting his belt—stuffed with enough stolen wrapping paper to wallpaper a small bathroom. “You realize we’re the worst people, right? Stealing from *babies*.” “We’re stealing from *trust fund babies*,” Molly corrected. “Big difference. These kids have *ponies*. Actual, real-life ponies. One less *iPad Mini* isn’t gonna scar ‘em for life.” Bill squinted at the invitation. “Wait—*Mrs.* Whitmore’s name is *Blair*? That’s a red flag. No one named Blair has ever been happy. This woman *knows* things. What if she’s onto us?” “She’s not onto us. She’s too busy coordinating a *live reindeer petting zoo* to notice two fake Santas.” Molly checked her watch. “We’ve got twenty minutes before the *Grand Entrance of the Ice Princess*—” “Which is just her daughter in a bedazzled snow suit,” Bill muttered. “—so we *move*. You take the gift table, I’ll handle the parents. And *do not* eat any of the cookies. Last time, you got crumbs in the evidence bag.” Bill gasped, offended. “That was *one time*. And that was a *good* oatmeal raisin.” Molly grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the wrought-iron gates of the Whitmore estate. “Stick to the plan. In, out, no emotional attachments.” Bill paused, eyeing a particularly large present wrapped in gold foil. “…What if the rock boxes are *heavier* than the real gifts? We could be doing these kids a *favor*.” Molly groaned. “We are *terrible* people.” Bill grinned. “Yeah, but we’re *efficient*.”