Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95CY9D71HV7AP6MDVKESRH

The air in Bill’s workshop hummed with the sickly sweet scent of cheap solder and desperation. Molly, sharp as ever, tapped a glowing schematic on the workbench with a manicured finger. Bill, meanwhile, was trying to coax a defiant hamster out of a tiny, custom-made getaway vehicle that resembled a souped-up teacup. The hamster squeaked indignantly. “Alright, Bill, focus,” Molly’s voice cut through the hamster's protests. “Operation: Sugar Rush is a go. The Sterling residence. Saturday. Little Tiffany’s eighth birthday. Theme: ‘Magical Unicorn Meadow’.” Bill grunted, finally nudging the hamster into its tiny driver's seat. “Magical Unicorn Meadow, huh? You think they have real sparkle ponies?” “They have approximately four thousand pounds worth of high-end plastic moulded into equine shapes, two siblings who look suspiciously like future kleptomaniacs, and a catering staff that specialises in fondant,” Molly replied, consulting a tablet with practiced efficiency. “Our precise ingress point is disguised as a delivery of artisanal gluten-free cupcakes. You’ll be the designated delivery guy. I’ll be the ‘special guest entertainer’.” Bill’s eyes widened, a familiar spark of alarm lighting them. “Entertainer? What am I, juggling flaming… uh… unicorns?” “No, Bill. You’re carrying the significantly modified 'cupcakes', which contain our EMP emitter and sonic disruptor. Once inside the study, where the presents are *supposedly* being ‘kept safe’ by her father with his ‘firm but fair’ rule, you deploy them. I infiltrate the main hoard. We’re in and out before the ‘piñata of Shame’ gets cracked, which is scheduled for precisely 15:30.” Bill scratched his chin, leaving a faint smudge of grease on his already grubby uniform. “But what if the dad’s not ‘firm but fair’? What if he’s, like, 'surprisingly spry and knows Krav Maga for dads'? And what if Tiffany sees me? She’s got those… those *knowing* eyes.” “Tiffany has the attention span of a gnat on a sugar rush, Bill. She’ll be too busy questioning the structural integrity of rainbow sherbet. As for her father, that’s where your secondary objective comes in. When he approaches, you engage him with a story. A long one. About… about the time you *almost* met a real unicorn.” Bill brightened, a goofy grin spreading across his face. “Oh, I got that one down! It involves a particularly misty morning, a herd of very confused sheep, and a garden gnome that looked *suspiciously* like a miniature Pegasus!” Molly sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose as if to ward off an oncoming headache. “Just… make it believable. Or at least, confusing enough to buy me time. Remember the mantra: maximum loot, minimum fuss. No glitter bombs, no spontaneous singalongs, and for the love of all that’s sacred, *do not* eat the evidence.” “Got it. No eating the stolen goods. Unless it’s cake,” Bill mumbled, already looking disappointed. “Definitely no cake, Bill. Now, try on the capes. The sparkle factor is non-negotiable.” Molly handed him two shimmering, slightly scratchy-looking nylon cloaks. They looked less magical unicorn and more budget-bin disco disaster. Bill slipped one on, puffing out his chest like a miniature, misguided dragon, the cheap fabric rustling ominously. “You know, this could be the high point of my career. Stealing presents from rugrats. It’s almost… wholesome.” Molly just shook her head, a small, predatory smile playing on her lips. “Wholesome is for amateurs, Bill. This is art. Now, let’s review camouflage patterns for the sugar-rush escape route.”