Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY805ZZXPEF5QVS5ZAEFRP4

The neon glow of a flickering *Open* sign cast jagged shadows across the sidewalk as Molly adjusted the strap of her duffel bag, her breath fogging in the crisp autumn air. Inside the party venue, laughter and the distant clink of plastic cups spilled through the open door like a siren song for thieves. "You sure about this, Bill?" she whispered, nudging him with her elbow. "Kid parties are one thing, but *all* the presents? That’s like robbing a toy store, but with more glitter and less security." Bill wiped imaginary sweat from his brow, his fingers twitching toward the lockpick set tucked in his pocket. "Relax, Molly. It’s not like we’re stealing from *actual* kids. We’re just liberating their parents’ hard-earned cash from under a mountain of plastic dinosaurs and battery-operated dance floors." He grinned, but his eyes darted toward the security camera mounted above the door—a single blinking red light like a lazy eye. "Though if we get caught, we’re telling the judge it was a *charity* heist. Don’t forget to mention the ‘underprivileged children’ angle." Molly snorted, pulling a pair of latex gloves from her bag. "Underprivileged kids don’t have parents who buy them $200 LEGO sets with *personalized* minifigures." She held up a small, sleek device—a signal jammer, stolen from a tech convention last month. "This’ll scramble the cameras for about twenty minutes. After that, we’re on our own." Bill’s grin faltered for half a second before he recovered. "Twenty minutes is *plenty* of time. We’ll be in, out, and back to our van before the parents even realize their kids’ birthday wishes are now *our* problems." He checked his watch—a cheap digital one, because expensive watches were for people who didn’t need to time their escapes. "They start at seven. We hit at six forty-five. That gives us time to case the joint, disable the alarms—" He paused, realizing he hadn’t actually disabled any alarms yet. "—and *not* get caught by the bouncer who looks like he bench-presses toddlers for fun." Molly rolled her eyes. "You’re forgetting the *real* challenge: the cake. If we don’t get the cake, the parents will suspect something. And if we *do* get the cake, we’re stuck explaining why we’re carrying a three-tiered sugar mountain through the parking lot." She held up a small, pre-loaded keycard. "I hacked the back door access. It’s set to open for exactly three minutes. After that, it locks again. So we’ve got to move fast." Bill’s eyes lit up. "Three minutes? That’s *perfect*. We’ll grab the presents, the cake, and—" He stopped, suddenly serious. "—the piñata. The piñata’s *got* to go. That thing’s probably stuffed with candy worth more than my entire last paycheck." Molly smirked. "You’re obsessed with piñatas." "Piñatas are *art*, Molly. They’re *symbols* of joy and destruction." He adjusted his hat—a simple baseball cap, because fancy hats were for people who didn’t need to blend in. "And if we leave the piñata, the kids will keep hitting it until it’s empty. Then they’ll be sad. And sad kids *always* talk." Molly sighed, but she was smiling. "Fine. But if we get caught, I’m blaming you for the piñata." Bill clapped her on the back, sending her stumbling slightly. "Deal. Now let’s go steal some presents before the parents realize their kids are the *real* thieves—of their attention." He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the door, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And Molly? If we get caught, we *definitely* didn’t hear the bouncer say ‘police.’"