Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1GVC81GKFXG9RBYX572E0G

Molly crouched behind the hedge with a notebook balanced on one knee, staring at the pastel chaos beyond the garden wall. Balloons bobbed like cheerful sentries. A cardboard magician smiled with criminal innocence from the gate. Somewhere inside, a woman laughed the exhausted laugh of a parent who had rented too many folding chairs. “Tell me again,” Bill whispered, adjusting the tiny party hat he insisted was camouflage, “why this is morally worse than robbing a bank, but also somehow easier.” “It’s not worse,” Molly said. “It’s just stickier. Banks don’t have icing.” “Banks should. I’d feel better about embezzlement if there were cupcakes.” Molly flipped a page. “Focus. Entry point: side gate. Obstacle one: clown.” “I distrust all men whose job description includes shoes that honk.” “Obstacle two: a magician.” “That’s just a clown with a card deck and performance anxiety.” “Obstacle three,” she said, peering over the hedge, “approximately sixteen children with sugar in their bloodstreams and no respect for perimeter security.” Bill leaned in. “Any dogs?” “One sausage dog in a bow tie.” “That’s worse than a guard dog. Guard dogs believe in rules. Sausage dogs believe in chaos.” Inside the garden, a shriek went up as a piñata was raised like a sacred relic. Molly watched three adults immediately regret every life choice that had led them here. “The presents are under the gazebo,” she said. “Bright tablecloth, ribbon curtain, terrible oversight. We go in during peak distraction.” Bill frowned. “The piñata?” “No. Cake.” He put a hand to his chest. “Molly, I can endure many things. Alarms. Lasers. Mild electrocution. But have you ever stood between a six-year-old and frosting? That’s not theft, that’s war.” A gust of wind carried the smell of barbecue, sponge cake, and impending trouble. Molly tore a page from the notebook and sketched a crude map on Bill’s sleeve. “Look. Parents are clustered by the prosecco. Children orbit the bouncy castle. Enter through the side, blend with staff, grab sacks, and exit through the alley.” Bill looked down at his outfit: black turtleneck, black trousers, black gloves. “Which part of this says ‘staff’ to you?” “The confidence.” “My confidence says I’m here to burgle a submarine.” She reached into her bag and handed him an apron with HAPPY HELPER printed on it in rainbow letters. He stared. “I hate that this works.” “That’s why I’m in charge.” A little girl in a tiara ran to the gate, pressed her face to the bars, and squinted at them. Molly and Bill froze. “Are you the pony?” she asked. Bill glanced at Molly. “Emotionally, yes.” Molly smiled with terrifying speed. “We’re late entertainers.” The girl gasped. “What do you do?” Bill said, “Disappointment, mostly.” “Magic,” Molly cut in, and the child clapped before sprinting away to spread misinformation. Bill exhaled. “You see? This is how legends die. Not in gunfire. In face paint.” Molly stood, smoothing her coat. “Ready?” “For prison? Always.” “For the presents.” He adjusted the apron and squared his shoulders. “Right. We go in smiling, leave carrying loot, and under no circumstances make eye contact with the clown.” “Agreed.” “And if someone asks where the pony is?” Molly pushed open the gate. “Bill, today you become the pony.” He stopped dead. “I knew partnership was a mistake.” Then they walked into the party with the bright, doomed expressions of professionals entering the most dangerous room in England: one full of cake, children, and unattended gifts.