Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9Q29R0Y2698QFJDFQW4SM

The back alley behind Sweet Pea’s Party Palace smelled like burnt sugar and regret, the kind of regret that comes from staring at a security camera blind spot for the third time in five minutes. Molly adjusted her ski mask—black, because *obviously*—and kicked a half-eaten hot dog wrapper out of the way with the toe of her combat boot. It skittered into a puddle and stuck there, like the rest of their plans if they didn’t move soon. “You’re sure this is the night?” Bill whispered, his voice cracking like a teenager’s who’d just inhaled a helium balloon. He clutched a shopping list in one hand and a lockpick set in the other, as if the universe might mistake him for a concerned parent if he didn’t look *normal*. Molly side-eyed him. “I’m sure the *presents* are here. The party’s at seven, it’s now six-fifty, and unless the kids got a collective case of the hiccups, we’re golden.” She tapped her wristwatch—a fake Rolex she’d won in a poker game against a guy who definitely owed her money. “Also, I *bribed* the cake decorator. She said the parents are all too busy taking selfies with the piñata to notice us.” Bill swallowed. “What if there’s a *guard dog*?” “There’s no guard dog.” “What if there’s a *guard dog*?” Molly sighed, long and dramatic, like she was explaining gravity to a toddler. “Bill, if there was a guard dog, the cake decorator would’ve mentioned it. She’s the one who told me about the *weak* back door lock. Also, she said the parents are all on their phones, which is *convenient* for us but also *terrible* for their children’s social development.” Bill adjusted his gloves—fingerless, because *dexterity*—and peered around the corner. “You think the piñata’s full of cash?” “It’s a *children’s party*, Bill. The piñata’s full of *toys*. But the *presents* under the tree? That’s where the real score is. And according to my *very reliable* inside source—” she patted her jacket where she’d tucked the bribed decorator’s note “—the parents are all dropping off gifts in the supply closet before the party starts. We hit that, we walk out with a truckload of LEGO, dolls, and whatever the hell a ‘Furby’ is.” Bill frowned. “I don’t like this.” “You don’t like *anything*.” “That’s not true.” “It is. You once cried during *Ocean’s Eleven* because you thought the casino was *too* fancy.” “I was *moved* by the *aesthetic*.” Molly rolled her eyes. “Look, we go in, we grab the presents, we get out before the kids even show up. Easy. Unless you’d rather we hit a *bank* instead?” Bill brightened. “Do banks have *piñatas*?” “No.” “Then I’m in.” Molly grabbed his arm as he lunged toward the door. “Wait. We need to *case* the joint first. See where the cameras are, where the parents are, all that.” Bill groaned. “Can’t we just *go*?” “No. Because last time we ‘just went,’ we got caught by a *mime*.” “That was *one time*.” “And he *never* talked again.” Bill shivered. “Fine. But if we see another mime, I’m throwing you into the piñata.” Molly grinned, pulling him toward the door. “Deal. But if we get caught, you’re taking the fall.” Bill gasped. “That’s *not fair*!” “Life’s not fair, Bill. Neither is heist planning.” They slipped inside, the door creaking like a bad joke. The supply closet was just ahead, bathed in the sickly glow of a flickering fluorescent light. Somewhere in the distance, a child’s laughter echoed—too early, too loud, like the universe was laughing at them. Molly held up a hand. “Stay sharp.” Bill nodded, then immediately knocked over a stack of party horns. They both froze. A voice called from down the hall. “Did you hear that?” Molly’s eyes widened. “We are *so* screwed.” Bill grabbed her hand. “Run.” They bolted, the sound of footsteps pounding behind them, the distant shriek of a child’s voice— —and then they were outside, the alley air hitting them like a slap. Bill panted. “We forgot the *presents*.” Molly groaned, leaning against the brick wall. “We’re *amateurs*.” A shadow moved in the doorway. A woman in a pink apron stood there, arms crossed. “You two are *not* invited to the party.” Bill gulped. “We were just… looking for the bathroom.” The woman’s lip curled. “The bathroom’s *inside*.” Molly straightened up, all fake confidence. “Listen, lady, we’ll be back. With *more* lockpicks.” The woman sighed. “Just go.” As they turned to leave, Bill muttered, “I *told* you we should’ve hit the bank.” Molly kicked him in the shin. “Shut up and *walk*.”