Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ94HHNNCXEK367DP2R4ECVN

Molly ran a finger along a faded diagram of what appeared to be a bouncy castle. Her hideout smelled faintly of cheap gin and shattered dreams. Across the table, Bill gnawed thoughtfully on a pretzel stick. "So, we're really going through with this," Bill said, his voice muffled by pastry. "Stealing presents from a bunch of seven-year-olds?" "Not any seven-year-olds, Bill. Bartholomew Butterfield the Seventh. His parents are, shall we say, *financially robust*. This isn't about sentiment; it's about acquisition. And their security system is surprisingly lax after the fourth juice box is consumed." Molly tapped the diagram. "The primary cash crop, or rather, present pile, will be located in the conservatory, post-cake ceremony." "Right, the conservatory. So, we just waltz in amongst the sticky-handed cherubs and… what? Ask them nicely if we can borrow their new toys?" "Don't be ridiculous. We pose as professional gift-wrappers hired at the last minute. Turns out ‘Brenda from Fancy Wraps’ had a sudden, glitter-induced allergic reaction. We're their emergency replacement. People rarely question efficiency, especially when sugar-addled children are involved." Bill snorted his pretzel. "So, I'm Bartholomew's new favourite gift wrapper? What's my job? Make it look pretty while you pocket the PS5?" "Precisely. You'll be in charge of present distribution to the children immediately after the unwrapping frenzy. Keep them occupied, keep them happy, and most importantly, keep them *away* from the main haul as I extract it. I’ve got these custom, novelty goody bags. They look innocent, but they’re reinforced with Kevlar and have secret compartments." "Kevlar? For a bouncing castle party? Are we expecting miniature ninjas?" "Tactical advantage, Bill. And while you're distributing my Kevlar goody bags, you can initiate the diversion." "Diversion? What kind of diversion? A magic show where the trick is that all the presents disappear?" "Hardly. Too obvious. No, a sudden, spontaneous outbreak of… interpretive dance. You'll be the lead. Think Swan Lake meets a seizure. It’ll shock them into paralysis. Gives me a clean two minutes." Bill puffed out his chest. "Interpretive dance. I think I saw that on a documentary once. Do I get an outfit?" "The outfit is your standard blue overalls, Bill. We're going for low-key, 'working professional'. The dancing serves the purpose. Meanwhile, I'll be working the ventilation shaft. It's small, dusty, and crucially, leads directly to the conservatory's ceiling tiles. I’ll drop down, swap out the presents for these weighted, hollow replicas," Molly produced a stack of suspiciously light boxes, "and make my exit before anyone notices a slight shift in gravitational consistency." "Weighted? So they look like good presents until you try to open them?" "Exactly. Barty will be too busy watching your 'interpretive dance of doom' to notice." Molly raised an eyebrow. "Just… try not to spontaneously combust. And for heaven's sake, Bill, no actual ninjas or sea shanties. Stick to the plan." Bill nodded, a faraway look in his eyes. "Swan Lake. Got it. Will there be applause?"