Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ94VBEJJW4H5CMCTKK79JZF

Molly ran a skeptical finger over the crumpled blueprint spread across their rickety card table. Gloom filtered through a grimy window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, a stark contrast to the vibrant chaos depicted on the blueprint for a child's birthday. "Are you absolutely *sure* this is the score, Bill?" Bill, ever the connoisseur of questionable snacks, ignored her. He leaned back in his creaky chair, crunching loudly on a bright orange cheese puff, clouds of dust billowing from his opulent mustache. "Absolutely, Molly-kins. Prime target. High yield. Low risk." "Low risk?" Molly's voice was dry. "It's a six-year-old's birthday party. Security? Sparky the golden retriever and a perpetually sullen teenager." She tapped a crayon drawing of a crudely rendered bouncy castle, a sardonic brow raised. "Exactly!" Bill gestured with an orange-stained finger. "No laser grids. No pressure plates. Just... pure, unadulterated joy. And presents." Molly pinched her nose. "Objective: 'presents.' Not 'joy.' How many? Twenty? Half of them arts and crafts?" "Ah, but you forget. These are the Hastings' children. Multi-millionaire Hastings. Little Petunia's party is a NASDAQ opening bell for designer toys." Bill pushed the blueprint closer, his eyes gleaming. "The 'Gift Emporium.' A separate display room. Prime." Molly's eyes narrowed. "A 'Gift Emporium' for a six-year-old? Right. What's our approach? Stealth? Bribe the clown?" "Bribing the clown is an option," Bill mused. "But I was thinking 'Trojan Pony.' We infiltrate as entertainment." Molly stared, disbelief clear. "Entertainment? Bill, we're thieves. You can barely do a cartwheel." "Details! 'Magicians.' You, my assistant, handle the vanishing act. With the presents." "So, I distract the kids, you charm the parents, we vanish with two dozen Barbie dream houses?" "Precisely! Gifts into reinforced duffel bags. Disguise: stressed party planner. Nobody questions a stressed planner." "And you?" "I'll be 'Amazing Bartholomew.' Top hat, cape. Smoke bomb for my grand exit, obviously." Molly sighed. "You're setting off a smoke bomb at a children's party, aren't you?" "Only if necessary! Dramatic flair. Or if Sparky gets overly enthusiastic. Timeline? Nap-time?" "Petunia and cronies well-napped by three. Present opening at four. Narrow window, post-cake sugar rush, pre-tantrum meltdown." "Perfect. Chaos is our cover," Bill clapped his hands, scattering cheese puff dust. "Getaway vehicle? Ice cream truck again?" "Bill, no. Not the ice cream truck. Too much attention, tunes stick in my head." Molly jabbed at a marked spot on the map. "The discreet minivan. Tinted windows. Plenty of space. No jingle-jangle." "Spoilsport," Bill grumbled. "Minivan it is. But I'm still getting a smoke bomb. Non-toxic. We're professionals, Molly. Standards."