Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYASY3ZSD0XQNW6BHKBXWMT

The neon glow of the party balloon arch pulsed like a drunk firefly outside the window, its reflection dancing across the sticky floorboards of Molly’s hideout—a converted storage closet beneath a toy store. Bill adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, squinting at the blueprint he’d “borrowed” from the security guard’s lunchbox. “Ten p.m.,” he muttered, tracing the outline of the sliding glass door with a stubby finger. “That’s when the parents will be too busy Googling ‘how to stop kids from eating glitter’ to notice us slipping in like ghosts.” Molly leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her boot scuffing a loose floorboard. “Ghosts?” She scoffed, tossing a stolen candy cane between her fingers. “We’re more like *sneaky raccoons*—except raccoons have the decency to actually eat the food they steal.” She nudged a duffel bag overflowing with lockpicks and a hairdryer (for “distraction purposes”). “Also, I checked the security footage. There’s a golden retriever named Biscuit who thinks he’s a guard dog. He’s got the energy of a caffeinated squirrel.” Bill groaned, rubbing his temples. “Biscuit’s the reason we’re doing this at night. Daytime he’s a menace, nighttime he’s a *shadow*—just like us.” He pulled a tiny bell from his pocket, jingling it ominously. “This’ll be our *distraction bell*. Ring it, and all the kids’ll come running, leaving the presents wide open.” Molly grinned, snatching the bell. “And if Biscuit barks?” She asked, already imagining the chaos. Bill shrugged. “Then we improvise. Maybe we bribe him with a whole pizza.” He paused, then added, “Or we don’t. We’ll cross that bridge when we’re drowning in presents.”