Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA9NZE8K2Y9S5HMHRQF6M6

The neon glow of the neon sign outside *The Sugarplum Ballroom* flickered like a dying firefly, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. Molly adjusted the brim of her too-tight beret, her gloved fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against the handle of her lockpick set. Inside, the laughter of children and the clink of plastic cups drifted through the open door, mingling with the acrid scent of cheap popcorn and regret. Bill slouched against the brick wall, his leather jacket stretched taut over his expanding midsection. He wiped a smear of mustard from his chin with the back of his hand. "You sure this is the right place?" he muttered, squinting at the handwritten sign taped to the window. *"First Annual Whimsy Wonderland Party—All Gifts Must Be Claimed by Midnight!"* Below it, in smaller letters, was the fine print: *"No refunds. No exceptions."* Molly didn’t look up from her sketch of the party layout, her pencil scratching furiously across the napkin. "Yeah, yeah, I’m sure. The host’s name’s Reginald Puddlefoot. He’s got a *thing* for rare action figures. Like, *obsessive* thing. His basement’s basically a shrine to *Glow-in-the-Dark Ninja Turtles* from ’93. And his security’s a guy named Gary who thinks his walkie-talkie is a *cool* prop." Bill groaned, rubbing his temples. "Gary’s the guy who *screams* when you walk past him? The one who once mistook a fire drill for an actual emergency and locked himself in the bathroom with a flashlight?" "Exactly. Gary’s our golden ticket. If we can get him to think the party’s *already* over, we’re golden." Molly circled the basement door on her napkin. "We go in at 10:45, right when the cake’s being cut. I’ll distract the parents with a fake ‘emergency’—maybe say the sprinklers are broken or something. You handle Gary. And then—*boom*—we hit the gift table like it’s a buffet at a buffet." Bill’s eyes widened. "You’re suggesting we *lie* to *parents*?" Molly shrugged. "They’re not exactly sharp. Most of them are just standing there staring at their kids like they’ve never seen a child before. It’s like they forgot how to talk to people." She tapped the napkin. "Besides, if we’re caught, we’ll just blame it on the ‘naughty child’ who ‘accidentally’ set off the fire alarm. Classic deflection." Bill considered this, then nodded slowly. "Alright, but if we get caught, I’m blaming *you* for the ‘naughty child’ bit. I don’t want to be the one explaining to Gary why we’re stealing *all* the presents." Molly grinned, her teeth flashing white against her dark lipstick. "Deal. But if we pull this off, we’re splitting the haul *evenly*. No excuses." Bill held up a hand. "And if we *don’t* pull it off?" Molly’s grin faltered for just a second. "Then we go to jail. Together. Like a *real* heist team." Bill sighed, but there was a glint in his eye. "Fine. But if I end up in a cell with Gary, I’m suing." Molly laughed, the sound sharp and bright in the dim streetlight. "You’d lose. Gary’s already sued his own reflection for ‘reflective harassment.’" Outside, a car door slammed shut. Molly’s smile faded. "Shit. That’s the Puddlefoot’s ride." She grabbed Bill’s arm, yanking him toward the alley. "Move, move! We’ve got, like, twenty minutes before the party’s in full swing. And if we’re not in there by then, Gary’s gonna start *actually* checking the gifts." Bill didn’t argue. He just muttered, "I hate children’s parties," as they melted into the shadows, the distant sound of laughter and "Happy Birthday" singing growing louder with every step.