Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8V7J9B4A4A3VH04MZ2TF7N

The stale smell of cheap coffee and failure hung in the air of the cramped apartment. Molly, her brow furrowed in concentration, stabbed a finger at a crayon-smeared map spread across the rickety table. Bill, a man built like a refrigerator with a nervous tick, paced behind her, cracking his knuckles. “This is the softest target we’ve ever considered,” Molly said, her voice a low, serious rasp. “The perimeter is a simple picket fence. The primary security is a Yorkshire Terrier named Mr. Snuffles, reportedly vicious when deprived of cheese cubes.” Bill stopped pacing. “A kid’s birthday party, Moll. We’re planning to boost a six-year-old’s loot. My moral compass, which usually just spins, is actually pointing at ‘despicable.’” “Your moral compass also pointed us at that ‘can’t miss’ charity bingo raid,” Molly snapped, not looking up. “We netted seventy-three dollars and a profound sense of shame. This is clean. This is simple. The mark is one Timothy Henderson, age six. The haul is estimated at twelve to fifteen high-value gift bags, plus a potential big-ticket item: a ‘Super Soaker Hydro Cannon 9000.’ Our fence in the playground says he can move that by recess Monday.” Bill sighed, sinking into a creaking chair. “What’s the timeline?” “Party starts at two. Pinata at three-fifteen. That’s our window. Maximum distraction. The adults will be drunk on nostalgia and cheap punch, the children will be in a sugar-fueled frenzy. You,” she said, pointing at Bill, “will create a diversion. I need you to trip and ‘accidentally’ sit on the clown.” “The clown? Why is there a clown?” “The client requested ‘Bubbles the Merry.’ He’s a known variable. He’s allergic to his own glitter. Once he’s compromised, I slip into the house. The gifts are staged in the living room, next to the bookcase. In and out in ninety seconds.” Bill rubbed his temples. “And the extraction?” “Standard procedure. We meet at the jungle gym. Code phrase is ‘The teddy bear has a wet nose.’ If things go south, abort to the sandbox.” “I can’t believe we’re using heist terminology for a sandbox.” Bill stared at the crayon map. “What about the parents? The Henderson’s. Intel?” “Dad’s a tax accountant. He’ll be meticulously arranging chairs. Mom’s the wild card. She made the cake herself. She will be emotionally volatile. Avoid direct eye contact.” A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the drip of the kitchen faucet. Finally, Bill spoke, his voice heavy. “We’ve really hit the big time, haven’t we?” Molly finally looked at him, a flicker of the old fire in her eyes. “It’s not the Crown Jewels, Bill. But it’s a score. A simple, low-risk score. We need the capital. After this, maybe we can get back to real jobs. Museum pieces. Corporate vaults.” “Fine,” Bill grumbled. “But I’m not wearing the striped shirt. It’s a stereotype.” “You’ll wear the striped shirt. It’s part of the ‘hapless neighbor’ cover.” Molly rolled up the map with a decisive snap. “Operation: Sugar Rush is a go. Remember, no one gets hurt. Especially not Mr. Snuffles. I have a soft spot for terriers.” “Yeah, yeah,” Bill muttered, already picturing the disappointed faces of a dozen six-year-olds. “No hurting the dog. Steal the joy from children, but spare the dog. Priorities.”