Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA7REPAN9H2115N8EJHNJW

The linoleum of Mabel’s Diner stuck to Bill’s scuffed work boots as he prodded a congealed blueberry pancake with a brittle plastic fork, his brow furrowed like he was solving a math problem instead of planning a heist. Molly leaned over a crumpled neon party invite, her pen scratching tiny Xs next to “piñata station” and “gift table”—spots she’d scouted the day before, when she’d posed as a caterer’s assistant to sneak a peek at the layout. “You sure the parents’ll be glued to the fancy charity auction the whole time?” Bill mumbled, his eyes darting nervously to a kid with a lollipop perched on a stool by the diner’s front door. “Positive—they’re all desperate social climbers. The auction’s their big spotlight, they won’t look away for a second.” Molly didn’t look up from her notes. Bill’s fork clattered against his plate with a sharp ping; he’d forgotten he was holding it mid-prod. He’d once messed up a tiny convenience store heist by staring at a goldfish bowl too long, transfixed by the orange fish darting around, so Molly’s constant, meticulous checks were a welcome safety net, even if her sharp remarks occasionally irked him. “What’s the distraction again?” he asked, fumbling for a crumpled napkin to wipe sticky blueberry syrup off his frayed flannel sleeve. “I’ll disable the giant balloon machine by yanking its power cord—they’ll panic when confetti stops mid-burst. You grab the gifts in the chaos before anyone notices.” Molly tapped the invite firmly. She’d mapped the gift table’s exact dimensions—six feet long, two feet wide—stacked with elaborately wrapped boxes labeled with fancy designer logos: train sets encrusted with fake diamonds, dollhouses with mini crystal chandeliers, and even a few boxes she suspected held high-end gaming consoles for the birthday boy, a spoiled ten-year-old named Tyler. “Think any of these fancy wrapped gifts have cash inside them?” he asked, perking up as he leaned closer to the invite. “Some parents slip high-end gift cards—five hundred dollars each, easy. But no cash—too traceable, and we don’t need that kind of heat.” Molly’s pen snapped in her hand; she’d been gripping it too hard. Bill shifted uneasily in his vinyl booth, recalling the last heist he’d botched—he’d accidentally taken a kid’s sparkly backpack instead of a briefcase full of cash, leading to a chaotic chase through a playground by a troop of feisty Girl Scouts who’d used their merit badge skills to corner him behind a slide. Molly stuffed the crumpled party invite into her frayed leather jacket pocket, sipping the last of her bitter black coffee until the cup was empty. She’d timed the heist for 2:17 PM exactly, when the piñata would break and every kid at the party would be diving for candy on the floor, leaving the gift table completely unguarded for a full two minutes. “You ready to not mess this up like the goldfish bowl incident?” Molly finally looked up at him, her eyes sharp. “I’m ready—no more staring at goldfish or sparkly backpacks this time.” Bill saluted clumsily. The diner’s front bell jingled loudly as a group of well-dressed moms walked in, chatting animatedly about the same birthday party’s charity auction, their designer purses slung over their arms and their faces painted with the same fake smiles Molly had observed during her scout. She nudged Bill, nodding at them—proof her intel was solid—then stood, slinging her canvas bag over her shoulder, and Bill followed, still wiping blueberry syrup off his grimy cheek. He tripped over a diner chair on his way out, sending a stack of napkins swirling, but Molly didn’t pause—she was already mapping the shortest route to the party’s back entrance, her mind ticking through the two-minute window she’d calculated, certain this heist would be the one that finally got them enough cash to fix their broken van and stop hiding in diners with congealed pancakes.