Run: 2026-03-18-01KM07GKVH0EE33D1KSQPGHJ1E

Molly adjusted the fake mustache in the mirror, flicking an imaginary speck of lint from Bill’s borrowed blazer. The costume shop had smelled like old burritos, but the ensemble was convincing—if you squinted. Bill tugged at his collar, which felt like it was strangling a family of moths. "You look ridiculous," Molly said, flipping her wig to hide a smirk. "Better ridiculous than jail," Bill grunted, straightening a tie that screamed "desperate office temp." He glanced at the party flyer taped to the glove compartment. "Sunshine Bounce Festival. Ten kids. Thirty adults. Cake towers. Probably one of those tiny cupcakes I can’t resist." Molly smacked his wrist with the back of her hand. "Focus. Presents first. Birthday money is the easiest score. No alarms, no vaults, just a room full of loot in shiny paper." Bill scoffed, pulling out a folded map of the rec center. "You realize we’re dressed like pervy clowns disguised as dad at a soccer game, right?" "Performers. We’re performers. I’m Mrs. Whiskerstein the Magical Unicorn Lady. You’re Big Bill the Juggling Thunderbolt." She gestured grandly, nearly taking out a stack of parking permits. "Besides, who’s gonna question a group of adults playing dress-up at a children’s party?" Bill rubbed his temples. "The kids. The kids will question it. You ever see a five-year-old call out a scam?" Molly waved a dismissive hand. "Kids see what we want them to see. We hand out a few cheap rings, a couple of balloon animals, and they’re too busy licking frosting off their fingers to notice we’re emptying their goodie bags." Bill exhaled sharply through his nose. "You said this was clean. No people harmed. No witnesses." "Witnesses? They’ll throw us a thank-you cake and ask for an encore. Now come on, the parents are pooling their cars in the drop-off zone. All you gotta do is stroll in, look like you’ve adopted a child you’ve never met before, and slip into the gift room." Bill glared at the rec center sign glowing in the rearview like a warning beacon. "I hate this plan." Molly clapped him on the shoulder. "You hate every plan until you’re two minutes from the score and sweating less than a bacon-wrapped stripper at a health seminar." Bill checked the duffel bag at his feet. Inside, nestled beside zip ties and lock picks, was a half-eaten protein bar and a crumpled napkin that said "Win" in Sharpie. He sighed. "One hour. Tops. Then we’re gone before the piñata makes an appearance." Molly grinned, adjusting her horned headband. "One hour? I don’t know, Bill. Maybe we stay for the cake. Maybe we stay for the bounce house. Maybe we become the life of the party."