Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQFBQW0DRB2R3Y9JNH2AKP

The back alley behind *Bubbles the Clown’s Party Palace* smelled like balloon animals and regret. Molly leaned against a dumpster, arms crossed, watching Bill pace in front of a stack of discarded piñatas. “Alright,” Molly said, tossing a half-eaten lollipop into the trash. “We’ve got twenty minutes before the *Little Princess Extravaganza* starts. You got the layout?” Bill stopped mid-stride, nearly tripping over a deflated giraffe. “Yeah, yeah. Main room’s got the presents—stacked under a glitter cannon, because of course it is. Security’s just some guy named Dave in a rent-a-cop uniform who’s definitely napping in the break room by now.” “Dave?” Molly raised an eyebrow. “You’re on a first-name basis with the help?” “He owes me twenty bucks from poker night.” Bill adjusted his fake mustache—glued on crooked, as usual. “Also, I may have told him I was here to ‘inspect the fire exits.’” Molly groaned. “You *what*?” “Relax! I brought donuts. Dave loves donuts.” He patted his jacket pocket, where a grease-stained box bulged ominously. “Distraction and entry, all in one.” “You’re a genius,” Molly deadpanned. “A *disgusting* genius.” Bill grinned. “Thank you.” A high-pitched giggle echoed from inside the building, followed by the unmistakable sound of a child screaming, *“I WANT THE PONY NOW!”* Molly winced. “Remind me again why we’re robbing a five-year-old’s birthday?” “Because *rich* five-year-olds have *expensive* taste.” Bill ticked off fingers. “Last week’s haul? A diamond-encrusted My Little Pony, a limited-edition Lego Death Star, and a *signed* Elmo.” “Signed by who? A guy in a furry suit?” “Signed by *Elmo*, Molly. That’s like the Mona Lisa to a toddler.” Bill pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt. “Also, their parents pay in *cash*. No paper trail. It’s the perfect crime.” Molly sighed, adjusting her own disguise—a frilly apron and a name tag that read *“Cupcake Carol.”* “Fine. But if we get caught, I’m telling the cops you’re the one who cried during *Frozen*.” Bill gasped. “That was *one time*! And it was the *reindeer’s* fault!” “Sure, sure.” Molly checked her watch. “Alright, Casanova. Go seduce Dave with your day-old bear claws. I’ll scope the present table.” Bill saluted, then paused. “Wait. What if there’s *face painting*?” “Then don’t touch anything.” “But what if I *need* a tiger stripe? For, uh… camouflage?” Molly grabbed his arm and shoved him toward the side door. “Go. Before I ‘accidentally’ glue your mustache to your forehead.” Bill yelped, stumbling forward. “That was *one time*!” Molly didn’t answer. She was already slipping inside, the sound of Bill’s muffled argument with Dave over “jelly versus custard filling” fading behind her. The main room was a sugar-fueled nightmare—balloons, streamers, and a bounce house that looked like it had seen things no human should. And there, under a sparkly banner that read *“Daddy’s Little Angel (Probably)”*, was the motherlode: a mountain of gifts wrapped in paper that probably cost more than Molly’s rent. She pulled out her lockpick set, then hesitated. One of the presents was *moving*. Molly froze. The box wriggled again. Then, with a *pop*, a tiny, very angry chihuahua burst free, wearing a party hat and a look of pure betrayal. Molly stared at the dog. The dog stared back. “…We are *so* fired,” she muttered.