Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8TKBSPT7SVMTT0XHJ5J99A

The warehouse loft smelled of failure and old pizza. Molly traced a pudgy finger across the blueprints, which were, in fact, a brightly colored map of “Sunny Meadows Estate” drawn in crayon. Bill, perched on a milk crate, polished a grappling hook with the intensity of a neurosurgeon. “The primary ingress is here,” Molly said, pointing to a wobbly rectangle labeled ‘FRONT DOOR.’ “During the peak distraction window: the magician’s act. Specifically, the moment he pulls the doves from his sleeve. Universal awe pattern in the six-to-eight demographic is ninety-seven percent.” Bill nodded, squinting. “Security?” “One adult male, ‘Dad.’ Likely preoccupied with grill flare-ups. One adult female, ‘Mom.’ Threat level elevated if the paper plates run out. The real variable is the Labrador retriever. Code name: Buster. He’s a licker, not a biter, but his enthusiasm could cause a noise complaint.” “Understood. Exfil?” Molly flipped the page to a diagram of the backyard. “We go over the fence into the Andersons’ yard. They’re at their lake house. Their gnome population is dense, but passive.” Bill leaned back, a grin spreading. “The loot?” “Standard haul. Plastic construction kits, age-inappropriate glitter-based arts and crafts, several units of ‘educational’ wooden toys. The jackpot is the oversized stuffed unicorn. It’s a limited edition ‘Glitterhoof.’ Secondary market value is insane on mommy forums.” “Beautiful.” Bill’s eyes gleamed. “What’s the catch?” Molly sighed, pushing her glasses up. “The cake. It’s a multi-tiered fondant fortress. The birthday boy, ‘Timmy,’ has a documented history of violent meltdowns if his baked goods are disturbed. The presents are stacked in a makeshift strongroom adjacent to the cake table. One errant elbow, and we have a screaming, frosting-covered liability.” Bill considered this, tapping his chin. “We need a cake-based diversion. Could we trigger a pre-emptive collapse? Remote-controlled rodent?” “Too messy. I propose we exploit the magician. I’ve studied his online reviews. He’s a hack. His ‘disappearing coin’ trick fails sixty percent of the time, causing toddler incredulity. We simply ensure failure during his finale. The ensuing chaos will be our curtain.” Bill stood, stretching. “I’ll prep the get-away wagon.” He gestured to a battered ice cream truck parked in the shadows, its cheerful jingle box rewired to play the theme from *Mission: Impossible* at a low hum. Molly rolled up the crayon blueprint. “Remember, Bill. This isn’t just about the loot. It’s about sending a message.” “Yeah? What message?” “That no one’s birthday is safe.” She allowed herself a small, grim smile. “And that we really need the money for rent.”