Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY985KN72B8602DP2C4G0B9

The linoleum of Big Al’s Diner stuck to Molly’s scuffed boot as she stirred burnt coffee in slow, deliberate circles, a crumpled birthday flyer flattened under her elbow to keep it from blowing away in the draft from a broken window. The flyer blared “LUCAS’S 7TH BIRTHDAY BLOWOUT—BACKYARD PIRATE ADVENTURE” in neon red ink, with a photo of a diamond-encrusted pirate eye patch (a custom gift from Lucas’s billionaire grandpa, valued at $45,000) peeking from a teetering pile of wrapped presents. Bill, slouched across the booth, picked at a caked ketchup stain on his faded leather jacket, his usual heist jitters fizzing into childlike confusion instead of his usual cool. “Why a kids’ party?” Bill mumbled, prodding the flyer with a greasy fry plucked from his leftover breakfast hash. “Last time we hit a bodega you yelled at me for knocking over a gumball machine and alerting the cashier.” Molly tapped the eye patch photo with a chipped black nail, her meticulous heist brain already mapping the backyard. “That patch alone’s worth twice our last half-baked bank job. The presents are stashed in a cedar playhouse behind the swing set—unguarded except for a 16-year-old babysitter scrolling TikTok and a Pomeranian named Mr. Fluffernutter who’s scared of balloons enough to hide under the porch.” She slid a crumpled hand-drawn map across the table, marked with Xs for the pinata station, playhouse back window, and alley-side gate. “Mr. Fluffernutter?” Bill snickered, clamping a hand over his mouth when the gruff waitress glanced over. “What if the kids see us? I don’t do well with tiny humans yelling ‘stranger danger’ and tackling me for my wallet.” Molly pulled a fake pirate bandana and sparkly face paint sticks—neon green and gold—from her canvas bag, laying them beside the map. “We’ll blend in. You’ll be ‘Pirate Bill,’ the surprise treasure hunter I hired online. I’ll distract the babysitter with fake lemonade requests and a pirate cookie allergy while you stuff presents into a stretchy balloon bouquet bag.” She nodded at the bright red bag under the booth, clashing with her all-black outfit. “Wait—balloon bouquet bag?” Bill squawked, his chair scraping linoleum. “That looks like a toddler’s tea party prop. What if it breaks? We’ll be knee-deep in wrapping paper and crying kids before grabbing the eye patch.” Molly leaned in, voice low over the diner’s fridge hum. “It’s reinforced with bulletproof vest fiber. The 3 p.m. pinata break is our distraction—kids screaming for candy while we slip out the gate. I brought helium for decoy balloons to distract Mr. Fluffernutter.” She pressed a helium can into Bill’s greasy hand. “Fine. But if Mr. Fluffernutter attacks, I’m hiding behind the piñata and blaming you for the mess—also, no more gumball machine incidents.” Molly stuffed the map back into her bag, draining her coffee in one gulp. The diner’s clock ticked toward 2 p.m.—two hours until the blowout. She slid out of the booth, yanking Bill up by his collar, the flyer fluttering to the floor where the waitress would sweep it into a trash can, unaware of the heist brewing over burnt coffee and fries.