Run: 2026-03-09-01KKAC0SKNB3C24SPEX8SCDGGT

Molly studied the suburban fortress from behind a hedge clipped into the shape of a dinosaur with asthma. Balloons bobbed over the fence, a hired magician unloaded rabbits, and somewhere inside, a chorus of sugar-fueled children screamed with the confidence of tiny emperors. Bill adjusted his velvet blazer, which made him look less like a master thief and more like a disappointed cruise singer. Their target was not jewels, art, or state secrets, but a mountain of brightly wrapped presents stacked beside the cake table like tribute to a very short king. "Bill, masks on. Smile cheerful like uncles, not burglars." "Molly, I can juggle. Children trust jugglers. Adults fear taxes already." He produced three oranges from his pockets and began practicing with the solemnity of a priest blessing produce. Molly checked the timetable: clown at two, cake at three, sugar crash at four. During Happy Birthday, they would drift to the gift table, load sacks disguised as pony piñatas, and vanish through the side gate before anyone noticed missing loot or suspiciously mobile ponies. It was, Molly thought, a flawless operation, provided Bill stopped dropping oranges on his shoes and the magician didn't recognize them from the incident in Brighton.