Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95XNQ2156PG7P6JYDKC5YA

The faded linoleum of Molly’s kitchen floor was, as usual, a landscape of past failures and present ambition. Crumpled takeaway menus competed for space with a meticulously annotated map of a suburban bungalow, labelled ‘Operation: Tiny Treasures’. Molly herself was hunched over, tracing a perilous path with a Biro-scarred finger, her expression one of grim determination usually reserved for untangling exceptionally knotted headphone cords. She was calculating ingress points, factoring in the notorious ‘Barnaby’ (described by their informant as ‘a furry tornado with a biscuit addiction’) and the formidable ‘Grandma Guard’ (a seventy-something knitting enthusiast with eyes like a hawk). The objective was deceptively simple: a children’s birthday party, a veritable mountain of brightly wrapped parcels, and a chaotic two-hour window of pure, unadulterated, sugar-fuelled mayhem. The sheer audacity of the plan appealed to Molly’s refined sense of criminal absurdity. Bill, meanwhile, was diligently polishing a single, pristine fork with a tea towel, its metallic gleam reflecting the dim kitchen light. "And the target is… kids' presents, Molly?" Bill ventured, his voice a low rumble. "Seems a bit… soft. Our usual calibre, this isn't." Molly snorted, her expression barely shifting. "Soft? Bill, we're performing vital de-cluttering services for the affluent. Think of it as specialised urban renewal for the toy box, saving parents from assembling plastic monstrosities. We're not just thieves; we're problem solvers. Barnaby is manageable with tactical biscuit deployment. Grandma Guard is predictable; her habits are our ally. Your part is critical: maintain Barnaby's focus with cheddar bribes and initiate the diversion. It’s essentially psychological warfare on a canine." Bill held the fork aloft, admiring its shine. "Psychological warfare. Right. So, lots of tiny, noisy distractions then? And the main haul?" "The living room, obviously," Molly confirmed, tapping the drawing. "Infiltrate as late-arriving guests, disguised as catering. I extract the parcels. You, create controlled pandemonium. Precisely timed, Bill. One slip–" "–And we're trapped in a saccharine meltdown with over-excited toddlers and their bouncy balls, I know," Bill finished, a surprisingly astute echo. "Got it. Symphony of timing, ballet of pilfering. Classic Molly. Let’s hope this isn’t another squirrel-related incident."