Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY86MFS4GKD87SZAGCAR1RB

The living room reeked of chocolate and cheap glitter, Molly’s pen tapping a rapid rhythm on the napkin she’d swiped from the coffee table. Bill hovered by the bay window, squinting at the backyard where a unicorn piñata wobbled lazily on its rope. “Y’know,” he said, voice too bright, “that thing’s probably got more presents in it than… than most *adult* heists.” Molly snorted, smearing a daisy with her thumb. “And what makes you think that, genius? The kids’ presents are wrapped in sparkles and fairy stickers, sure, but the good stuff—gold jewelry, vintage watches—usually comes last. You think a five-year-old knows the difference between a Han Solo action figure and a *Rolex*?” Bill shifted, his elbow knocking over a bowl of plastic dinosaurs. “Kid cooties,” he mumbled, kicking a T. Rex under the couch. “Bet I’ll come home with a rash. Or *worse*.” Molly stood, crumpling the napkin into a tight fist. “Relax. Parents are distracted—Melissa’s too busy fretting over the cake not being *lopsided* enough, Tom’s arguing with the clown about ‘professional boundaries’ while eyeing the piñata. I slip in, grab the big presents, dump ’em in the duffel. You keep watch. And if you so much as *breathe* near the piñata, I’ll tape you to it.” Bill brightened, perking up. “What if I want to *pet* it? Unicorns are my favorite.” Molly sighed, already edging toward the partially open door. “Then you’re grounded. Now go. The kids start opening presents in ten minutes. We’ve got the attention span of toddlers with lollipops. Let’s move.”