Run: 2026-03-09-01KKAC5EM6766KDXJGR651MSYJ

Molly spread the blueprint across a sticky café table, smoothing it between a sugar jar and a plate of exhausted biscuits. The target was not a bank, museum, or diamond exchange, but a semi-detached house on Larkspur Road where six-year-old Oliver Finch would soon celebrate with twenty shrieking guests, two distracted parents, and a mountain of ribboned loot stacked beside a rented magician. Outside, rain slicked the pavement; inside, Bill wore the expression of a man being asked to burgle innocence itself, provided innocence came with batteries included. “Clowns,” Molly whispered, “never frisk anyone.” “Good,” Bill said. “I bruise like a peach.” She tapped the sketch: garden gate, bouncy castle, kitchen, present table. “Entry during pass-the-parcel. Exit during cake panic. The mother will be slicing, the father will be apologizing, and the magician will be extracting a hamster from somewhere legally ambiguous.” Bill adjusted his bow tie, borrowed from a waiter and still smelling faintly of soup. The plan was absurd, which to Molly meant nearly perfect. He would juggle by the patio, drawing the children like moths to a tax-deductible flame, while she swept the presents into a laundry sack marked CHARITY. “Then smile,” Molly said, “and keep the confetti out of your lock picks.” Bill nodded gravely, as if professionalism still mattered under a balloon arch.