Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7QQQWC7AN967ZGCF7ERA6

The neon glow of a flickering "Happy Birthday!" balloon cast long shadows across the backseat of Bill’s beat-up van as Molly adjusted the strap of her knapsack, her fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against the plastic. The party was in full swing just a block away, the sound of squealing kids and a kazoo-playing clown bleeding through the windows like a bad action movie soundtrack. "Alright, *partner*," Bill said, leaning back in his seat with a grin that looked suspiciously like he’d just won the lottery—except he hadn’t, and neither had we. "We’re in. The security’s a sad excuse for a babysitter, the cake’s got more sprinkles than a circus, and those presents under the tree look like they were wrapped by someone who’s never held scissors before." Molly crossed her arms, her dark eyes gleaming. "You’re telling me you’ve got a plan, or are we just going in there like a couple of overgrown kids who forgot to RSVP?" Bill waved a hand. "Oh, I’ve got a plan. It’s called *improvisation*. Step one: we get in. Step two: we steal all the presents. Step three: we *don’t* get caught by the parents, who are currently too busy texting their friends about how ‘adorable’ their kid is to notice two strangers in a van with a *very* suspicious amount of duct tape." Molly snorted. "And what’s the backup plan, exactly? ‘Oh, the clown’s got a key to the house’?" "Better than your backup plan, which is ‘we punch the clown and hope he doesn’t call the cops.’" Bill adjusted his hat, which was slightly askew, as if he’d been wearing it wrong his whole life. "Look, the front door’s unlocked. Classic. Parents think kids are invincible, so they leave the damn thing open like it’s 1995. We slip in, grab the presents, and—" "—and what?" Molly interrupted, leaning forward. "We *run*? Because if we run, we’re gonna look like a couple of maniacs who just robbed a birthday party. And then the cops’ll be here in five minutes, and we’ll be in the back of a squad car, explaining to a very unimpressed officer why we were wearing ski masks to steal *toys*." Bill held up his hands. "Who said anything about ski masks? We’re professionals. We blend in. We’re *subtle*." Molly raised an eyebrow. "You’re wearing a ski mask." Bill sighed, pulling the mask down to his chin. "Fine. But I *told* you, we’re not wearing them. We’re just… *dressing the part*." Molly groaned. "You’re an idiot." "Yeah, yeah. But an *effective* idiot." Bill reached into the van’s glove box and pulled out a small, glittery bow tie. "See? *Elegance*. We’ll tie this around my neck, look all sophisticated, and the parents will be too busy taking selfies to notice us pilfering their kids’ dreams." Molly stared at the bow tie like it had personally offended her. "You’re *insane*." "Genius," Bill corrected, tying it on with a flourish. "Now, the plan is simple. We go in, we grab the presents, we—" "—and we *leave* before the parents realize their kid’s favorite action figure is now in our possession," Molly finished, rolling her eyes. "Because if we don’t, we’re gonna have a very long explanation to give to a very angry mom who just found out her son’s ‘miracle’ dinosaur is now in our van." Bill grinned. "Worth it." Molly shook her head. "You’re a menace." "To the man," Bill said, raising his fist. Molly bumped it with hers, despite herself. "Alright," she said, straightening up. "Let’s do this. But if we get caught, I’m blaming you." Bill clapped her on the back. "Deal. Now let’s go steal some presents before the cake gets eaten." He popped open the van door, and the two of them stepped out into the night, the distant sound of a kazoo’s wail following them like a bad omen.