Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8WD7PTW6B3Q83XNXANCWFA

The scene: Two thieves, Molly and Bill, are planning a heist to steal presents from a children's party. The user wants 70% dialogue. I need to write the prose of the scene without any markdown or commentary. Just the scene itself. I'll create a comedic tone. They should be in a mundane location, maybe a diner or a cheap apartment, planning this ridiculous caper. The humor comes from the contrast between their professional heist jargon and the target—a kid's birthday. I'll start with a bit of description to set the scene, then dive into dialogue. I need to keep track of the word count—aim for around 500 words, with 70% (350 words) being dialogue. I'll write naturally and check later. Let me draft. **Scene:** The fluorescent light in Bill's kitchenette buzzed like an angry insect, flickering over a spread of crayon-smeared party invitations and a hand-drawn map of a suburban backyard. Molly tapped a photo of a piñata shaped like a unicorn. "Alright. This is the target. The Henderson residence. Saturday, two PM. The package transfer will occur in the designated 'gift zone' near the swing set." Bill squinted at the map. "Security?" "Minimal. One primary guardian—the mother, Lisa. Distracted, likely caffeinated. The father, Dave, will be manning the grill, a known volatility. The main threats are thirty hyperactive assets under the age of eight." "Witnesses." "Highly unreliable. Their testimonies will be mostly about cake and a man in a ridiculous dinosaur costume." Bill leaned back, a grin spreading. "The dinosaur is our in. You intercept the performer. I'll take his place. No one looks at the man in the suit. I infiltrate, mingle, case the gift table." Molly shook her head. "Your rendition of 'Happy Birthday' is a war crime, Bill. We go in after. During the chaos of the cake slice." "Cake slice chaos is overrated. It's a five-minute window, max. We need a sustained diversion. What about the family dog?" "A geriatric Labrador named Snuffles. His idea of aggression is drooling on your shoe." She pulled another photo. "Here's the real play. The presents get moved post-cake to the living room for the unwrap. That's the choke point. One exit. We create a external incident." "Such as?" "A sprinkler malfunction. I'll tamper with the backyard hose bib. You, already inside posing as the helpful neighbor, suggest moving all the gifts to the garage to keep them dry. We load them into the van." "Posing as a neighbor? What's my cover?" "You're from number forty-two. You're checking on the noise. You bring a casserole." "A casserole? Who brings a casserole to a kid's party?" "A concerned neighbor who hates joy. It sells the bit. Once the gifts are in the garage, you trip the automatic door. It closes. We have two minutes of private time while everyone thinks it's a malfunction." Bill rubbed his chin. "The loot. Mostly toys, I assume. Any intelligence on high-value items?" Molly sighed. "Grandma sent a gold-plated savings bond. Aunt Carol usually springs for something educational and expensive. The rest is plastic junk. But the real score is the cash. Lisa Henderson gives out goody bags with five-dollar bills inside. Times thirty kids." "One hundred and fifty dollars?" "Plus whatever's in the card from the grandparents. It's not the Crown Jewels, Bill." "It's the principle. A clean, low-risk job. No lasers, no vaults, just a squeaky clown nose and a van full of wrapped Paw Patrol merchandise." He looked at the unicorn piñata again. "We are hitting rock bottom, aren't we?" "We're between jobs. It's a soft target. And," Molly said, folding the map with finality, "nobody expects a heist at a six-year-old's birthday." "Okay. So, Saturday. I'm the casserole guy. You're on sprinklers. Exfil at the sound of the first child crying over melted ice cream." "Which should be approximately two-forty-five. Happy planning." Bill raised a mug of cold coffee. "To the Henderson job. May our takings be merry and bright." "And may we never have to hear 'Baby Shark' again."