Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95KQGGSB25QR3QMEHFN5WC

The apartment air hung thick with the ghosts of forgotten take-out and Molly's simmering frustration. Every available surface was buried under a meticulous, if somewhat greasy, operational plan for "Operation Sugar Rush." Crumpled napkins served as blueprints, adorned with frantic arrows and hastily scrawled warnings like "AVOID TODDLER ZONE" and "BOUNCY CASTLE: UNPREDICTABLE WINDS." Molly, her dark hair perpetually threatening to escape its bun, jabbed a pen at a crude drawing of a particularly belligerent unicorn on a placemat. Her spectacles, perpetually askew, magnified the worry in her sharp eyes, fixating on the delicate logistics of pilfering from a children's party. She, a seasoned thief, felt utterly ridiculous casing a bounce house. The indignity of it all was almost too much to bear. "Right, Bill. Specifics," she snapped, impatience fraying her voice. "Phase One: Infiltration." Bill’s current focus was less on tactical maneuvers and more on confectionery aerodynamics. He attempted to balance a half-eaten maple bar on his nose, a monumental feat requiring all his singular, misdirected attention. The sugary pastry, inevitably, slipped, landing with a soft, sticky thud in his lap. This was his fifth confectionery casualty of the morning, each failure a testament to his unique blend of clumsiness and sweet tooth. He barely registered Molly’s pronouncements, his mind already drifting to the potential for party snacks. "Mmph. Lost another one. Clown again?" Bill mumbled, wiping crumbs from his chin with a vaguely sticky sleeve. Molly sighed deeply, a sound of profound, ancestral weariness. Her fingers kneaded her temples, fighting a nascent headache. "No, Bill. This time it's Mrs. Henderson. The maternal dragon. And her brigade of sugar-crazed five-year-olds. They're surprisingly effective perimeter security." Her finger traced the edges of a crudely sketched gazebo, labeled "THE PRIZE TABLE." "Back gate entry, disguised as caterers. Your job: distraction." Bill’s eyes widened, a flicker of genuine enthusiasm igniting them, though promptly followed by a puzzled frown. "Magic show? Or… puppets with tiny little hats?" "Chaos," Molly clarified, her gaze fixed on the placemat as she mentally orchestrated pandemonium. "Utter, glorious chaos. Theatrical-grade fogger, industrial confetti cannons. Seven minutes covering my extraction." Bill’s brow furrowed further, clearly weighing the ethical implications of excessive party theatrics. "Overkill? It's just Hot Wheels and the occasional Barbie." "There's a vintage Captain Comet playset," Molly hissed, leaning in conspiratorially, her voice laced with avarice. "Payday. And new tools for me, after your *poodle show incident*." Bill visibly flinched, recalling the tiny, enraged poodle and the shattered porcelain trophy. "Fair enough. Chaos, then swooping." "And the food," Molly added, her gaze warning him of dire consequences. "No mini-sausage rolls. No tiny quiches. Absolutely no jelly." Bill's lower lip protruded. "Even the green jelly, Molly? The one that shimmers?" "Every last wobbling bit," Molly affirmed, already sketching their escape route across the back of an old utility bill with furious strokes. "Total denial. For the greater good."