Run: 2026-03-18-01KM07XKMK5VD1RF0G05M7X3Z9

The streetlamp flickered like it was trying to read the guest list. Molly crouched beside Bill, both of them wearing matching paper crowns labeled “TEMPORARY ROYALTY,” which seemed less like disguises and more like a cry for help. The house glowed with cheerful balloons and the distant squeal of tiny feet. “Okay,” Molly whispered, adjusting a fake mustache that kept trying to escape. “We are professionals.” “Professionals don’t wear crowns,” Bill whispered back, tugging his own crown down like it was tax compliance. “They wear helmets.” “Molly,” Bill added, “your crown is held together with tape and optimism.” “It’s artisanal tape,” Molly said. “Now listen. We steal all the presents. No one gets hurt. Possibly no one cries.” Bill stared at the front door. “That’s ambitious. Children are basically crying machines with pockets.” “We’ll neutralize the pocket situation,” Molly said. “Step one: distract the host.” Bill blinked. “The host? Like—pretend to be clowns?” “Worse,” Molly said. “We pretend to be… magicians.” Bill frowned. “Magicians? At a children’s party? That’s like bringing a knife to a birthday.” “Bill,” Molly said, “we brought a knife-shaped cake server. It’s metaphorical.” Bill peered at the backpack slung over his shoulder. “The knife-shaped thing is definitely a knife-shaped thing.” “Mmm,” Molly replied. “Step two: get inside.” Bill lifted a small tool kit. “I assumed step two was ‘walk through the front door,’ like normal people.” Molly smirked. “Normal people don’t have our glow.” Bill looked around. “The streetlamp flickered again. Your glow is… legally questionable.” “Focus,” Molly hissed. She pointed to the window where light spilled across children’s drawings. “There’s a side window. It’s the only one without a ‘No Trespassing’ sign.” Bill nodded slowly. “Because the sign is decorative. I see it now.” “It’s like a haunted fence,” Molly said. “Step three: open the gift pile.” Bill’s eyes widened. “There’s a gift pile already?” Molly tapped the side of her nose. “All parties have gift piles. Nature intended it. Like seagulls and stealing fries.” Bill swallowed. “I hate nature.” “Step four,” Molly continued, “escape. Step five: pretend we were hired to organize the presents.” Bill nodded solemnly. “As ‘gift consultants.’ That’s believable.” Molly pointed at his bag. “You have the wrapping-paper disguise?” Bill pulled out a roll of paper. “This is… duct-taped tissue. It’s fancy.” Molly sighed. “Fine. Just don’t unwrap anything. Last time you—” Bill held up a hand. “I didn’t unwrap. I merely… admired the craftsmanship.” Molly narrowed her eyes. “You ate a ribbon.” “I panicked,” Bill said. “The ribbon called to me.” “The ribbon attacked you,” Molly corrected. Bill leaned closer. “If we steal every present, how do we know which ones to take?” Molly slid a tiny notepad from her pocket. “We follow the color-coded tags. Big ones go in the main sack. Tiny ones go in the… emergency sack.” Bill stared at her. “How many sacks do we need for tiny ones?” Molly patted her pockets. “Two. Because tiny ones are sneaky.” A laugh erupted from inside, muffled by the window. Molly and Bill froze like statues that had learned fear. Bill exhaled carefully. “That sounded like a dad laugh.” Molly nodded. “Dads laugh when they think everything is under control.” Bill whispered, “We are not under control.” “Correct,” Molly said. “We are under momentum.” Bill looked at their gear. “Momentum doesn’t stop alarms.” “It stops hesitation,” Molly corrected. She tapped her crown. “And we’re basically hesitant professionals.” Bill took a breath. “What’s our timeline?” Molly smiled. “We go in during the singing.” Bill’s expression softened. “During the singing? That’s when everyone’s distracted.” “Yes,” Molly said. “Kids gather around the cake. Adults record. Cameras love crimes.” Bill nodded as if accepting a contract. “And the gift pile?” “Untouched,” Molly said. “Like a sleeping dragon.” Bill leaned in, voice barely there. “So we just… snatch?” Molly lifted her hand. “Not snatch. Redeploy.” Bill frowned. “Redeploying stolen goods sounds worse.” “It sounds professional,” Molly insisted. “Now, count with me.” Bill tightened his grip. “If you say ‘one, two, heist,’ I’m calling this off.” Molly beamed. “One… two… heist.” Bill stared at her. “Why did you say it like that?” “Because the universe needs clarity,” Molly whispered. “Ready?” Bill swallowed. “No.” Molly squeezed his arm. “Perfect. Let’s be terrible at this.”