Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY93YHVS4S0MF1BN8H1Z0Z8

The neon glow of the party’s disco ball cast jagged shadows across the cracked linoleum as Molly adjusted her gloves, the fabric whispering against her fingers like a confession. Bill leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his breath fogging the cold air. “You’re sure this place is *empty*,” he muttered, eyeing the half-empty punch bowl. “Or are we just pretending?” Molly rolled her eyes, but her grin was sharp. “We’re not here to pretend, Bill. We’re here to *steal* presents.” She tapped her pocket, where a tiny, glittering USB drive pulsed with the promise of gold. “And if we’re caught, we’ll just say we were ‘helping’ the kids with their ‘creative arts project.’” Bill groaned, rubbing his temples. “You’re *insane*.” He gestured to the windows, where a dozen kids in glow-in-the-dark shirts were already dancing to the blaring music. “They’ll see us before we even get inside.” Molly flicked her wrist, and a tiny, invisible net—stolen from a security course—unfolded in her palm. “Relax. We’ve got this.” She ducked under the doorframe, her sneakers silent on the carpet. Bill followed, his footsteps heavy, but he didn’t complain. Not yet. Inside, the air smelled like cotton candy and regret. A table laden with wrapped gifts sat in the center of the room, their ribbons tangled like the vines of some twisted Christmas tree. Molly crouched beside it, her fingers hovering over the first present—a stuffed unicorn with a price tag still attached. “Bill,” she whispered, “this one’s got a *security code* on the back.” Bill groaned again, but then his eyes lit up. “Oh, come on. We’re not *that* bad.” He grabbed a nearby chair, flipping it over with a crash. “I’ll distract them. You handle the presents.” Molly smirked. “You’re *terrible* at distractions.” “Yeah, well, you’re *terrible* at not getting caught.” He shoved her toward the door. “Go on. Be a hero.” She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. The partygoers were already turning in their direction, their laughter too loud, too *aware*. Molly slipped behind a couch, her heart pounding—not from fear, but from the thrill of the heist. Bill, meanwhile, was already making a mess of the dance floor, his attempts at chaos looking more like a toddler’s than a professional thief’s. Then the music cut out. Silence. Molly’s pulse spiked. Bill, still mid-dance move, froze mid-step. The kids gasped. A security guard’s voice crackled over the intercom. Bill groaned. “We’re *so* screwed.” Molly’s grin never wavered. “Nah. We just need to *bluff* our way out.” She pulled out her phone, pretending to check a message. “I’ll say we’re ‘emergency volunteers.’” Bill groaned again, but this time, he was already sprinting toward the door. The party was over. The presents were theirs. And Molly? She was already plotting their next move—because if there was one thing she and Bill understood, it was that the best heists were the ones that made the audience forget they’d even been there.