Run: 2026-03-18-01KM08VSDK7Z4ZZ8KW3G99NGNN

Molly crouched beside the hedge across from the rented community hall, peering through a gap in the leaves at the brightly lit windows. Paper lanterns swung in the autumn wind like tiny moons. Inside, children shrieked with the holy ferocity of the under-caffeinated, and the muffled thump of music made the glass tremble. Bill adjusted the collar of his borrowed caterer’s jacket and frowned. “I still think this is beneath us.” Molly snorted. “We’re burglars, Bill. Beneath us is where we live.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “I prefer ‘independent acquisition specialists.’” “Then you can independently acquire me a ladder and stop being sentimental.” She pointed at the hall. “Look at that place. Every table’s covered in gifts. There must be two dozen presents in there, all wrapped, all labelled, all screaming to be liberated.” Bill squinted. “Liberty is a strong word for taking a ten-year-old’s robot truck.” “It’s a robot truck today. Tomorrow it’s a bridge to a better life.” “That’s nonsense.” “It’s inspirational nonsense.” A woman in a sparkly cardigan hurried past the hall doors carrying a stack of paper plates. Molly ducked lower. “See? The staff are distracted.” “By what?” “By children. Which, from what I’ve observed, is their natural habitat.” Bill shifted the canvas bag on his shoulder. It made a faint clink. “We are not taking the bikes, the tablet, or anything that looks expensive enough to have a warranty.” Molly turned to him in horror. “Bill. This is a children’s party, not a monastery. We take the good stuff, leave the crap, and everyone wins.” “No one wins.” “Exactly. That’s the spirit.” He hesitated, then said, “The cake is probably valuable.” Molly blinked. “The cake is not valuable.” “It’s three tiers.” “It’s mostly sponge.” “Luxury sponge.” She stared at him until he looked away. Bill had the unfortunate expression of a man who could talk himself into stealing a chandelier if it came with frosting. From inside the hall came a cheer, then the unmistakable sound of a game being lost by several small people at once. Molly smiled. “There. The kazoo contest is starting. That means the parents are trapped. We go in during the chaos, swap the gift tags, and walk out with the haul.” Bill made a face. “You’re forgetting the security.” “There isn’t any.” “There’s always security.” Molly nodded toward the far window. “That teenage volunteer in the superhero T-shirt?” “Yes.” “He’s reading a magazine on folding chairs.” “Still counts.” “He’s seventeen, Bill. If a balloon pops, he’ll need therapy.” Bill considered this, then sighed. “Fine. But we do this quietly. No shouting, no running, no humiliating children.” Molly lifted one hand. “I never humiliate children.” “You once convinced a six-year-old that his rabbit was a debt collector.” “That was a lesson in fiscal responsibility.” “It was mean.” “It was memorable.” A burst of applause rose from inside, followed by the tinny voice of a party host announcing the present-opening could begin in ten minutes. Molly’s eyes gleamed with professional delight. “Perfect. We slip in with the dessert trays, blend with the staff, and when everyone crowds around the birthday kid, we divert the presents into the catering van.” Bill looked at the white van parked down the street. “You rented a catering van?” “I stole a catering van.” He closed his eyes. “Of course you did.” “Compliment accepted.” The front doors opened again, spilling warm yellow light across the pavement. Molly straightened her gloves. For a second, she looked almost respectable: crisp coat, neat hair, posture like a woman about to attend church rather than commit festive larceny. “Ready, partner?” Bill hefted the bag and sighed with the doomed pride of a man who had made all the wrong life choices and was about to make a few more. “Ready to steal toys from children for the sake of the craft.” Molly grinned. “That’s my Bill. Now walk like you belong here. Remember: we are invisible.” He glanced at the hall, then at the sugar-fueled stampede inside. “In a room full of ten-year-olds?” Molly’s smile widened. “Especially in a room full of ten-year-olds.”