Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYASE3RWGAXZXME5N5PK6EC

The rain hammered against the corrugated iron roof of the abandoned laundromat, a relentless, insistent drumming that mirrored the anxious rhythm in Molly’s chest. Bill, predictably, was whistling a jaunty, slightly off-key rendition of “Pop Goes the Weasel.” He was meticulously examining a roll of duct tape, turning it over and over like a particularly intriguing gemstone. “You’re whistling,” Molly stated, dryly. “It’s a calming ritual,” Bill replied, not looking up. “Helps with the butterflies. Besides, this tape is crucial. Industrial strength. We’re not dealing with flimsy cellophane here, Molly. This is Fort Knox, kid.” “Fort Knox filled with plastic dinosaurs and rainbow bouncy balls,” she corrected. “Let’s focus. The Henderson’s. Eight-year-old Leo. Obsessed with remote-controlled monster trucks. That’s the prize.” “Leo’s got a concerning enthusiasm for those things,” Bill admitted, finally glancing at her. “Seriously, the amount of batteries he’s probably stockpiled is alarming. And his mother has a surprisingly robust security system – flashing lights, motion sensors, the works.” “I’ve disabled half of it already with a surprisingly effective rendition of ‘Baby Shark’ played through a Bluetooth speaker,” Molly announced proudly. “Leo’s parents are currently convinced their house is being haunted by a tiny, ferocious shark.” “Resourceful,” Bill said, genuinely impressed. “Did you manage to get the blueprints?” “Of course,” Molly replied, sliding a crumpled sheet across the table. It depicted the Henderson’s sprawling suburban house, complete with painstakingly labelled diagrams of windows, doors, and a particularly alarming expanse of manicured lawn. “Key’s under the gnome. Classic, I know, but they’re susceptible to gnome-related vulnerabilities.” “Gnomes,” Bill repeated, considering this. "Right. Okay. So, we go in through the rose trellis – I’ve already pruned it for optimal access - disable the sprinkler system with a strategically placed bucket of water, and then locate Leo’s bedroom. Priority one: the monster trucks.” “Don’t even think about touching the teddy bears,” Molly warned, her voice sharpening. “Those things represent a significant emotional investment on the part of a small child. We’re taking the presents, not traumatizing a seven-year-old." “You’re a monster, Molly. A delightful, slightly chaotic monster," Bill chuckled, rolling up the duct tape with unnecessary force. "What about the cake? Rumour has it Mrs. Henderson makes a seven-layer chocolate fudge masterpiece.” “Absolutely not. Cake is a declaration of war,” Molly stated firmly. “We’re strictly sticking to the hardware. Trucks. Action figures. Perhaps a particularly shiny set of LEGOs. Nothing that triggers existential devastation.” “Existential devastation?” “Don't push it, Bill. Just get the trucks. This operation needs to be swift, efficient, and devoid of any lingering sadness.” “Got it. Trucks. No cake. Haunted by sharks. Sounds like a plan,” Bill said, grinning. “You think they’ll notice the missing presents until after the party?" "Absolutely. They'll blame the photographer. It's always the photographer."