Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7W810SA33H4E7EERCX2JS

Molly hunched over a crumpled glittery children’s party invite spread across a sticky diner booth table, her chipped black nail polish tracing the curly font announcing Lila’s Seventh Unicorn Extravaganza. The booth reeked of congealed syrup and burnt coffee, Bill slouched across from her picking at a fossilized pancake crumb stuck to his scuffed leather jacket sleeve. He’d swiped the invite from a gilded mailbox down the block, his latest half-baked lead that Molly had surprisingly latched onto—presents meant for a wealthy tech mogul’s daughter would be worth more than their last three fumbling convenience store runs combined. The diner’s jukebox blared a tinny lullaby, and a waitress ignored them as she wiped a counter for the third time. “Think the presents are locked up?” Bill mumbled, prodding the invite with a greasy finger. “Locked in a rainbow-patterned toy chest, if the invite’s party agenda is to be believed,” Molly said, tapping a line about a “secret present stash reveal” at 3 p.m. “Rainbow chest? That’s too easy.” “Easy until you’re dodging a troop of face-painted unicorns with foam wands,” Molly retorted. She unfolded a crumpled napkin scribbled with exit routes: slip through the side gate into the gravel alley, hop the splintered fence to the abandoned laundromat, stow the loot in their rusted van parked two blocks over. The party was this Saturday, the parents distracted by a catered brunch of truffle eggs and a live balloon artist who’d be occupied twisting giraffes for squabbling kids. Molly’s distraction plan involved a whoopee cushion explosion by the three-tiered unicorn cake table—enough to send the kids into hysterical giggles and the parents into a flurry of napkin-waving cleanup, buying them exactly three minutes to grab the chest and run. She’d stolen a pack of whoopee cushions from a dollar store that morning, tucking them into her backpack beside a pair of rubber gloves. “Wait, what if a kid catches us?” Bill asked, leaning in, his voice cracking with sudden anxiety. “Tell them you’re the Unicorn Present Delivery Fairy’s bumbling assistant,” Molly said, rolling her eyes. “Can I wear a horn?” “You can wear a horn if you stop asking stupid questions and remember the tight timeline,” Molly said, shoving the napkin into his jacket pocket. Bill beamed, digging a dented plastic unicorn horn from his jacket (a souvenir from a previous failed heist at a toy store) and holding it up. Molly sighed, sipping her cold coffee, her eyes darting to the clock—they had 48 hours to test the whoopee cushions’ volume, map the fence’s weak spot, and make sure Bill didn’t accidentally blow their cover by trying to join the pinata contest. The diner’s bell jingled as a family walked in, a little girl waving a fluffy unicorn plush, and Molly’s jaw tightened—this heist was ridiculous, but the payout would finally get them out of their moldy apartment’s back rent and away from their irritable landlord who’d threatened to evict them over a broken window they’d never fixed. She folded the invite carefully, tucking it into her jacket, and nodded at Bill to finish his coffee—they had a whoopee cushion test run to schedule in the alley behind the laundromat.