Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ94MKVKY6W7NWP1MB9JQ06F

The panel van, a seasoned veteran of ill-advised suburban stakeouts, idled unobtrusively down the street, its scarred exterior doing little to attract attention. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of stale coffee and the faint, metallic whine of the portable fan. Molly, a study in coiled professional tension, meticulously polished a set of lock picks with a worn piece of chamois leather. Her sharp, bird-like eyes were riveted across the meticulously manicured lawns. She dissected the scene beyond the picket fence: a swirling vortex of primary-coloured balloons straining upwards, the distant echo of piercingly high-pitched shrieks, and the undeniable, glittering heart of their operation – a substantial mountain of precisely wrapped presents piled near the patio doors of number 123 Maple Drive. Little Timmy Thompson’s seventh birthday party. A treasure trove, ripe for the taking, and theoretically, their ticket to a less stressful future. Bill, a man whose enthusiasm far outstripped his attention span, adjusted the brim of his 'World's Okayest Thief' baseball cap. He peered through the smudged window, his brow furrowed in concentration. He offered a piece of lint he’d found stuck to the dashboard to Molly. "Souvenir?" Molly didn't spare him a glance, her focus unwavering. "The objective is the presents, Bill. Not the dust bunnies. They're practically gift-wrapped. It's almost insulting how easy they've made it." "So, we're stealing kids' presents," Bill confirmed, his voice a low rumble that barely disturbed the van's stale air. "Liberating them," Molly corrected, snapping the chamois leather sharply as if punctuating a vital point. "Think of us as benevolent agents of redistribution. Your job? Crowd control, if you can call it that. When the inevitable sugar-induced mayhem begins, and the focus shifts from the horde of tiny terrors to something more... stationary, like the cake, you create a brief, loud diversion near the hedge. A dropped tray. A sudden, unprompted philosophical rant about the futility of party hats. Whatever works to draw eyes away from the prize." Bill mulled this over, scratching his chin with a thoughtful, slightly sticky finger. "Philosophical rant?" "Just make it loud, Bill. Loud and distracting," Molly replied, her gaze already scanning for potential entry points. "I'll handle the door. Five minutes until the chaos peaks. Let's go."