Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY85NQ6CDAQHWFGM6QTCZ1B

The neon glow of the party balloon arch pulsed like a drunk firefly outside the window, its reflection dancing across Molly’s knife as she sharpened it against the whetstone with the precision of a surgeon performing a very unnecessary appendectomy. Bill leaned against the doorframe, his breath fogging the glass where a tiny, confused-looking piñata hung like a defeated balloon animal, its strings tied to a tree branch outside. "You’re gonna cut the locks with that?" he asked, nodding at the blade. "That’s like using a butter knife to open a vault. The vault’s got *butter*." Molly wiped the blade clean with her sleeve, leaving a smear of grease on her cheek. "The vault’s got *butter* because someone’s been eating the security footage." She tossed him a pair of kid-sized gloves from her duffel bag. "Put these on. You smell like regret and cheap cologne." Bill sniffed his armpit. "This is *Old Spice*. It’s *classic*." He slipped the gloves on, wincing as the fabric stretched over his knuckles like a grumpy balloon animal. "So, the plan is to sneak in, grab all the presents, and—what, exactly? Leave a note? ‘Happy Birthday, you idiots, we took your stuff’?" Molly adjusted the strap of her bag, which was already stuffed with half the party’s gifts. "We leave a *better* present. Something they’ll actually *use*." She grinned. "Like a whoopee cushion. Or a bag of gummy worms labeled ‘for the parents.’" Bill groaned. "You’re evil." He checked his watch. "We’ve got thirty minutes before the cake arrives. That’s our window. After that, it’s *chaos*." He grabbed a handful of candy canes from the windowsill, where they’d been left to melt in the sun. "These are *free* snacks. I call dibs." Molly snatched one back. "You’re a menace." She tossed him a lockpick set. "Now stop talking and pick the door before someone sees us." Outside, a child’s laughter bubbled up from the yard, innocent and unaware of the disaster about to unfold. Bill sighed. "Kids. Always the worst audience."