Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ94SAT1P643P82826T39K7Y

Molly squinted at the glitter-dusted invitation, a grimace battling the last stubborn sequin clinging to her cheek from a previous, regrettably, sparkly engagement. It served as a stark reminder of the unique challenges their current profession entailed. Across the cramped kitchen table, Bill meticulously unfolded a crude, hand-drawn map of 74 Cherry Blossom Lane. He smoothed the creases with the solemnity usually reserved for blueprints of international diamond syndicates, his spectacles perched precariously on his nose, magnifying his already wide, eager eyes. A half-eaten sticky bun lay beside a pair of dubious binoculars, suggesting recent, covert reconnaissance had involved significant carbohydrate intake. The very air around them hummed with the high stakes of their improbable profession. "Target: Barnaby Henderson's fifth birthday," Molly stated, tapping a perfectly manicured nail against a crayon drawing of a smiling unicorn. "Operation 'Princess Sparkle Rainbow Bash.' Presents." Bill nodded, circling a crudely drawn gazebo with a bright purple marker. "Entry: rear gate, adjacent to bouncy castle. Infiltration window: 2:15 to 2:30. During the puppet show." Molly sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Principal obstacle?" She knew. "Merlin the Magnificent," Bill declared, his eyes shining with utterly misplaced concern. "The hired magician. Balloon animals. Misdirection." Molly rolled her eyes. "Bill, we're not stealing a magical artefact. Just plastic. Where’s the actual loot?" "Under the gazebo," Bill recited, pointing a stubby finger on his map. "Intel suggests drones, LEGO, 'Poppy the Talking Pony.' It speaks fluent toddler-ese." "Fascinating," Molly drawled, unconvinced. "Other 'security threats'?" "Parents," Bill sighed. "Mothers. Mimosas. Fathers. Flat-pack toys. And the clown. Potentially armed with water pistols." "The clown is yours," Molly decided. "Distract. I'll extract." Her gaze drifted to the invitation’s RSVP date, long past. Their client was notoriously impatient for shiny new things, regardless of previous ownership. "But... the cake?" Bill ventured, a wistful, almost childlike, look blooming on his face. "Mrs. Henderson makes a mean red velvet." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. "No cake, Bill. Professional operation. In, out. No sprinkles. No tears. No empty plates. Understood?" Bill nodded, already picturing himself amidst the partygoers, perhaps with a strategically acquired cupcake hidden in his inside pocket. This was going to be their finest hour; even if it involved dodging rogue juice boxes and navigating a sea of tiny, sticky fingerprints, the haul would be glorious and the client thrilled. The sheer audacity of their plan, targeting the innocent joy of a child's birthday, was, in its own twisted way, a true masterpiece of comedic villainy.