Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8V584PR490PZKBJ1Z161XE

Molly smoothed the crayon-illustrated map across the hood of their dented van. The target was a suburban bungalow hosting one Timothy Higgins' seventh birthday. Bill, squinting in the dim alley light, pointed a greasy finger at the living room. "Perimeter?" he grunted. "Picket fence. Lethargic beagle," Molly replied. Their plan was deceptively simple: create a diversion at the piñata, scoop the wrapped loot during the ensuing cake-fueled melee, and exit via the neighbor's meticulously timed sprinkler system. Bill studied the photograph of the prize—a towering pile of boxes concealing plastic treasures. Their previous gigs had involved laser grids and pressure-sensitive floors; this felt simultaneously beneath them and terrifyingly complex. The stakes were low, but the margin for error was microscopic. One misplaced whoopee cushion could blow their cover. Molly handed Bill his disguise: an oversized rainbow wig. He accepted it with the solemnity of a knight receiving a cursed sword. "We've sunk low," he muttered, his voice thick with professional shame. Molly adjusted her own polka-dotted bow tie. "The Giggle-Me-Giggly is this year's hot item." She traced the extraction route on the map, a path littered with imagined landmines of dropped ice cream and sticky little fingers. They synchronized their watches, the plastic clown faces staring back, mocking their once-proud criminal reputations. The heist was on.