Run: 2026-03-18-01KM08E829TTNY4F8HP5QZXN1Y

The rain pattered against the windows of the unmarked white van parked across from the Marcus Family Fun Palace, its neon sign flickering like a dying firefly. Molly adjusted the headset over her ears, the wires dangling like forgotten party streamers. "You’re sure the gift table’s in the back room?" she whispered, tapping her gloved fingers on the steering wheel. The van’s interior smelled like stale coffee and regret. Bill didn’t look up from the blueprint he’d drawn on a napkin, his stubble catching the dome light like a 5 o’clock shadow of doom. "Positive. Fourth-grade class party. Gift exchange after cake. Timer on the fondue. They’ve got two moms on snack duty and a teenager whose idea of supervision is checking TikTok every twenty minutes." He folded the napkin into a crane that wouldn’t fly and tossed it into the cup holder. "The presents are stacked like a Jenga tower of greed. Top row’s the prize—Nintendo Switch and a signed soccer ball from some Local Dad who probably bribes teachers." Molly exhaled through her nose, fogging up her breath guard. "So we go in like ghosts, grab the top tier, and ghost out before the ice cream melts." She unzipped her bomber jacket enough to show the shoulder-mounted grappling hook. "I get three seconds to swing before the sprinklers notice the 'moisture anomaly.' You’ve got the distraction planned?" Bill finally lifted his head, his grin sharp enough to cut a cake. "Distraction’s my middle name. Literally. My birth certificate says 'Billy Distraction DeVito.'" He reached behind the seat and pulled out a shopping bag labeled *Party City in Hot Pink*. "Karaoke machine, disco ball, and a sound system loud enough to summon a zit." He shook the bag like it contained a genie. "While the kids are belting out *Baby Shark* for the tenth time, we slip in through the service door, hypnotize the gift table with our professional thief gaze, and walk out with armfuls of loot." Molly stared at him. "You bought a karaoke machine." "Rented. But same thing." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "What if the sprinklers go off early?" Bill shrugged. "Then we’re the wettest thieves in history. But the kids will think it’s, like, a water park accident or something. Crisis of youth." Molly rolled down the window just enough to let in a slice of drizzle. "And the security guard?" "Off papering his daughter’s room because the school’s out for teacher in-service day. His phone’s blowing up with photos of glitter curtains." Bill checked his watch, a chunky thing with too many buttons. "We hit it in twenty-three minutes. That’s when the cupcake break happens. Everyone’s covered in frosting and parental apologies." Molly nodded slowly, then pulled a small silver thermos from the glove box. She unscrewed the lid and took a long, serious sip. "Battery check." She plugged a tiny device into the van’s cigarette lighter. The screen lit up green. "Systems operational. Just like last time. Just like the time before that." Bill saluted with a juice box. "To the children’s toys. May we deserve them more than they deserve us."