Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8D0WA4TZG351ASXQA2W98

The backseat of Bill’s rusted-out van smelled like stale coffee and regret, which, honestly, was an improvement over the last job where it had smelled like regret and *mold*. Molly adjusted her ski mask—black, because subtlety was a luxury they couldn’t afford—and eyed the half-eaten bag of chips between them. “You sure this is the right house?” she asked, crunching loudly. “Because if we’re wrong, we’re gonna look like the world’s worst party crashers.” Bill squinted at the GPS, which had been giving him directions since 1998. “It’s the *only* house with a bounce house shaped like a dragon. How many kids’ parties have a *dragon*?” “A lot, if you count the ones where the parents are trying to make up for being terrible at parenting.” Bill chuckled, then winced as his ribs protested. “Fair. But look—lights on, music blasting, and the driveway’s full of toys. This is *prime* stealing real estate.” Molly leaned forward, peering through the windshield at the suburban nightmare before them. A piñata shaped like a clown dangled ominously from the ceiling. “You know what’s weird? The clown’s missing an eye.” “That’s not weird. That’s *art*.” “It’s a *warning*.” Bill ignored her and pulled out a pair of binoculars—stolen from a birdwatcher last month. “Okay, so the kid’s name is Timmy. He’s seven. Seven-year-olds are *easy*. They don’t even notice when you’re taking their stuff.” “That’s what you said about the ice cream truck.” “That was *one time*!” Molly sighed, then grabbed a notepad from her bag. “Alright, let’s run through the plan. You distract the parents—” “With my *charming* personality.” “—while I slip in, grab the presents, and get out before the piñata notices me.” Bill grinned. “Or before the dragon bounce house *eats* you.” “That’s not how bounce houses work.” “Since when do you know how bounce houses work?” Molly flipped him off. “I watch *one* kids’ show a year. For *research*.” Bill checked his watch—a fancy one he’d lifted from a jewelry store last week. “Alright, here’s the thing. The parents are gonna be busy. The dad’s probably telling war stories, the mom’s refilling juice boxes, and the kids are gonna be too busy screaming to notice us.” “Unless one of them is a future FBI agent.” “Then we’re screwed.” Molly nodded. “Exactly. So we move fast. I’ll go in through the back door—” “Which is *locked*.” “—because you *forgot* to case the joint properly.” “Hey, I *did* bring snacks!” She groaned. “Fine. I’ll pick the lock. You keep the parents occupied.” “How?” Molly thought for a second. “You tell them you’re the *magic clown*.” Bill blinked. “I’m not a clown.” “No, but you *are* missing an eye.” “That’s from the *last* job!” “Perfect. Just lean in close, whisper something about ‘lost and found,’ and when they turn around, *bam*—I’m out the back with all the presents.” Bill rubbed his hands together. “I *love* it. I get to be mysterious *and* terrifying.” “You’re terrifying now.” “Exactly.” Molly checked her watch. “Alright, let’s do this. But if I get arrested, I’m telling them you were the one who suggested the clown bit.” Bill gasped, clutching his chest. “That’s *cruel*. I’ll take the fall.” “Good. Now let’s go steal some toys before Timmy grows up and realizes his childhood was a heist.” Bill opened the van door, then paused. “Wait. What if Timmy’s the one who *planned* this?” Molly froze. “…What?” “Think about it. A seven-year-old with a *dragon* bounce house? That’s not normal. Maybe he’s *inside* on us.” Molly stared at the house. The music was still blaring. The lights were still on. And then— A small, muffled voice echoed from inside: *“Dad, why does the clown keep staring at me?”* Bill and Molly locked eyes. “Run,” they said in unison.