Run: 2026-02-25-01KJBFDPSDM73T7NPAMJ0P0JZ5

Molly adjusted her black ski mask tightly, though the bright afternoon sun made the disguise laughably ineffective. The suburban driveway stretched before them, lined with pastel balloons that bobbed in the wind like surrender flags. Bill sat in the van, nervously tapping a map against his knee. The stolen minivan smelled of stale pizza and old coffee. The engine idled with a low, anxious hum that vibrated through the floorboards. Molly checked the surveillance photos spread across the dashboard. The house looked peaceful, but she knew the danger lay within the sugar-coated walls. Outside, the neighborhood was quiet, save for the distant sound of a lawnmower cutting through the summer heat. The shadows of the oak trees danced across the hood of the vehicle, casting long, skeletal fingers over the dashboard. Bill shifted uncomfortably, the seatbelt digging into his shoulder. He wiped sweat from his brow, leaving a smudge of grease on his forehead. The air inside the van was thick with tension and the scent of cheap air freshener. “The piñata is a distraction. The real loot is under the tree.” Bill gestured vaguely toward the house. “But what about the cake? It looks like a fortress of sugar.” “We aren’t here for the sugar. We’re here for the consoles.” She finally looked at him. “Are you ready?” “I don’t know. It feels wrong.” “They have insurance. We have rent.” Molly opened the glove box and pulled out two sets of foam finger gloves. “Put these on. We need to blend in.” Bill stared at the foam fingers. “They’re for the Smith family birthday.” “Just wear them.” He sighed, slipping his hands into the oversized plastic digits. “Smile. Nod. Point at the balloons.” “We have a four-minute window before the cake cutting.” “We don’t unwrap. We bag and tag.” “What about the dog?” Molly paused. “There’s a dog?” “I saw a golden retriever in the yard. It’s wearing a party hat.” “That makes it worse.” She grabbed a bag of treats from the dashboard. “Here. Distraction tactic.” Bill took the bag. “It’s a heist, Bill. Ethics are for the people paying us.” He looked at the house again. “What if I get caught?” “Only the invisible kind. The kind made of guilt.” Molly opened the van door. “Stay low. Move fast. Don’t eat the cupcakes.” “Then you tell them you’re a clown.” “Paint one on.” “No promises,” Bill muttered, climbing out. They crept toward the house, foam fingers bobbing. The lawn was a minefield of toys. Molly signaled silence at the patio door. “Ready?” she whispered. “Born ready,” Bill lied. Molly kicked the door open. They were in.