Run: 2026-03-18-01KM07XRVWYFEWEA7DS2K4KNQW

Molly crouched behind a potted palm in the foyer, studying the front door like it had personally offended her. Bill hovered beside her with a toolbox that looked too small for the level of confidence he carried. “The door’s got a deadbolt,” Bill whispered. “And a smart lock.” Molly leaned in toward the keypad, reading it the way other people read tea leaves. “Smart locks are just insecure feelings in a plastic box.” Bill snorted. “That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said about technology.” “Don’t get sentimental,” Molly said. “We’re stealing from a children’s party.” Bill’s eyebrows climbed. “That’s right. Kids. Small humans. Tiny piggy banks. Big dreams.” Molly reached into her coat and produced a compact gadget with a screen and a suspiciously cheerful green light. “Dreams are for adults to fund with stolen wrapping paper.” Bill peered at the gadget. “Is that… legal?” Molly pressed a sequence on the screen. “Nothing I do is legal. That’s how you know it’s art.” A muffled chorus of laughter drifted through the house, followed by the thump of a piñata being introduced like a villain in a cartoon. Bill flinched. “Do you hear that?” he asked. “That’s joy,” Molly said. “Joy is just noise that distracts guards. Same as clapping at a magic show.” Bill shifted his weight. “We should probably move before someone opens the door.” “We are moving,” Molly replied, and aimed her device at the smart lock. The green light blinked rapidly, then settled into a calm, smug glow. Bill watched, impressed in spite of himself. “What did you do?” “Negotiated,” Molly said. “With the lock. It agreed to remember a different password for a short period of time.” “That sounds like blackmail.” “It’s called customer service,” Molly corrected. “Now, hush. We’re in the listening phase.” Bill placed a finger to his lips, then immediately forgot and used both hands to gesture wildly about how stealthy he was being. Molly gave him a look that could peel paint. “Fine,” Bill mouthed. “I’m stealth.” From inside, a voice called, “Muffin Man’s here!” followed by a squeal and a sudden rush of tiny footsteps that sounded like a herd of caffeinated squirrels. Bill’s eyes widened. “They’re in a hurry.” “Good,” Molly whispered. “Busy children are quieter than bored children. Everyone knows that.” Bill swallowed. “Do we steal the presents while the party is ongoing?” Molly’s expression sharpened with determination and a frightening amount of organization. “We steal them now, before they get taken to the kitchen and placed somewhere ridiculous, like on a table with a centerpiece made of sugar.” Bill nodded slowly, as if the centerpiece itself were a personal enemy. “We’ll grab all of them. Every last—” “Every last,” Molly confirmed. Bill leaned closer to her. “Including the ones with the giant bows?” “Especially those,” Molly said. “If it has a bow, it’s basically a neon sign that says, ‘Take me, I contain joy.’” Bill grinned. “I love your philosophy. It’s criminal and also extremely specific.” Molly slipped her hand into her pocket and drew out a pair of thin gloves. “Shut up and help.” Bill fumbled with his own gloves, struggling to interpret their purpose. “These are… labeled left and right.” Molly arched an eyebrow. “Did you expect them to just… levitate onto your hands?” “I’m trying,” Bill said, then tightened one glove with a triumphant tug. “Okay. I’m dressed for crime. Now what?” Molly pulled the toolbox closer and retrieved a small roll of tape. “Now we open the door.” Bill stared at the tape. “Tape?” “It’s for the plan,” Molly said. “Every plan needs tape.” Bill paused. “I thought your plan was genius.” “It is,” Molly replied. “Genius plans still require tape.” The lock clicked softly, like it had just accepted a bribe and was trying not to show it. Molly eased the door open a few inches, letting a ribbon of warm air and birthday music spill into the foyer. A light from the hallway flickered across Molly’s face, highlighting the calm menace of someone about to steal from small people. Bill leaned in. “Are you ready?” Molly held up two fingers. “First, we move quickly. Second, we move quietly. Third—” A child’s voice shouted, “Where are the games?” and the sound of a party organizer’s laugh echoed, closer than either thief would have liked. Bill’s whisper came out breathy. “Third what?” Molly glanced at the living room where a mountain of presents sat under a banner reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY in glittery letters. “Third, we don’t touch anything that looks like it might scream.” Bill squinted. “Like the inflatable dinosaur?” “Exactly,” Molly said. “The dinosaur may be harmless, but it has the spirit of a warning.” Bill nodded, then crept toward the door with the devotion of a man entering a sacred temple. Molly followed, silent as a secret. At the threshold, Bill stopped and pointed. “Look. There’s a gift with your name on it.” Molly froze. “There is no gift with my name on it.” Bill tilted his head. “It says MOLLY on the tag.” Molly stared at the present in horror and, for once, felt something like guilt. Then she squared her shoulders. “Someone,” she said through clenched teeth, “has a sense of humor.” Bill’s eyes gleamed. “Or they know you.” Molly reached out, hesitated, then grabbed the present like it had personally mocked her. “Grab the whole pile,” she ordered. “We’re leaving no glitter behind.” Bill hustled forward, scooping up boxes with both arms. “Do we bag them? Or do we just carry them like—like festive pirates?” Molly opened the toolbox lid and produced a tarp. “Tarp. We’re professional.” Bill wrapped a corner around a gift bag. “Professional pirates.” Molly hissed, “Fewer metaphors.” Bill nodded hard, then whispered, “This is going to be incredible.” Molly listened as the party music surged, the sound of laughter and clapping covering their footsteps. “It’s going to be,” she said, “exactly as planned.” Then, from somewhere behind them, the front door swung inward with a gentle creak. Molly and Bill froze in perfect synchronized panic. A voice, cheerful and unaware, said, “Oh good, you made it! Can you carry these to the living room?” Bill turned his head slowly toward Molly. Molly stared at the open door like it had betrayed her personally. Bill swallowed. “Uh… who’s ‘you’?” The voice laughed again. “Me, of course. I’m you. I’m the delivery person. Surprise!” Molly blinked once, then let out a quiet, furious breath. “Bill,” she said, “we’re stealing from a children’s party.” Bill’s eyes widened. “Yes.” “And now,” Molly added, “we’re stealing from someone who’s clearly already stolen my dignity.” The delivery person stepped closer, smiling, hands full of more presents as if the house itself had decided to mock them.