Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8CZ1V15Z5HJP9SAP3A0HM

The neon glow of the party store’s *Kids’ Carnival* sign flickered like a dying firefly as Molly adjusted her oversized clown wig, the elastic digging into her temples. She’d stolen it from a circus supply closet three towns over—because of course she had—and now it itched like a bad decision. Bill, perched on the fire escape across the alley, kicked his feet against the railing, sending a shower of rusted nails clattering onto the dumpster below. He’d insisted on the wig. *"Kids don’t question clowns,"* he’d said, which was either genius or the dumbest thing Molly had ever heard, and she’d heard plenty. Inside, the shrieks of delighted children and the tinny strains of *"Baby Shark"* drifted through the open windows. Molly crouched behind a stack of discarded pallets, her gloved fingers tracing the outline of the crowbar tucked into her belt. The presents were piled high near the exit—wrapped in glittery paper, bows like tiny flags of surrender. Bill’s plan was simple: slip in during the cake-cutting chaos, grab the loot, and vanish before the parents noticed their kids had been replaced by a pair of very confused, very sweaty adults in face paint. Molly exhaled through her nose, the wig shifting slightly. *"You sure about this?"* she muttered, more to herself than Bill, who was already halfway down the ladder, his suspenders bouncing with each step. *"Trust me,"* he whispered back, though Molly wasn’t sure if he meant the plan or the wig. Either way, she followed, the soles of her shoes squeaking against the linoleum as they stepped into the land of sugar, balloons, and impending doom.