Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ94P15EJH0CXQ2YQVBD23N0

The air in Bill’s cramped garage, his self-proclaimed command center, reeked of stale coffee and his particular brand of over-earnest cologne. Bill himself hunched seriously over a glitter-covered birthday invitation, tracing a crayon-drawn dog with a jeweler’s loupe. His forehead was slick with concentration as he adjusted his ill-fitting, crumpled trench coat. Molly, meanwhile, leaned against a stack of deflated pool toys, idly sharpening a butter knife to an alarming point, humming tunelessly. Her tiny balaclava, a repurposed sleep mask, sat slightly askew. "Kids' party, Bill." He jabbed a finger at a crudely drawn gift table. "Strategic targets; high-value goods." His gaze darted to imaginary pressure plates. "Actual threats?" Molly prompted, testing the knife's edge. Bill peered at a hand-drawn security flowchart. "Juicebox traps. Anti-bouncy castle perimeter." He straightened, adjusting imaginary cufflinks. "Go time?" "Cake cutting." Bill's eyes gleamed with mercenary zeal, already sketching escape routes on the back of a grocery list. This precise infiltration, Operation Sugar Rush, would be flawless.