Run: 2026-03-18-01KM09640E5MZGP8T9BVG3DVNZ

Molly adjusted her sunglasses even though the sun had set an hour ago. The community center’s parking lot was a graveyard of minivans, their backseats still stuffed with half-assembled piñatas and bags of Mylar balloons that glittered like idiot diamonds. Inside, the shrieks of sugar-fueled children ricocheted off the cinderblock walls like pinballs gone rogue. She popped a breath mint and checked her watch again. "Ten minutes to go-time," she muttered, mostly to the mint. Bill clung to the brick facade like a particularly unattractive ivy, his gloves leaving sweaty thumbprints on the mortar. "Did you actually scope this place out yesterday or are we winging it based on a Yelp review? ‘Great atmosphere, questionable cake.’" His voice cracked like a puberty flashback. Molly ignored him and wiped her palms on her tactical pants—pre-wrinkled, pre-beat, exactly how she liked everything. The target area was a gaudy throne of presents under a banner that read “Happy Birthday, Timmy (Age 5—Don’t Ask).” She cataloged the loot: three remote-controlled cars, a towering LEGO set shaped like a volcano because of course it was, and a pony plushie that cost more than Bill’s car. Perfect. Bill followed her gaze, then recoiled. "There’s a clown balloon animal vendor inside. I’d rather take a stapler to the eye." His voice hit a pitch usually reserved for haunted houses. Molly dropped into a crouch behind a recycling bin labeled ‘Pumpkin Pulp Only.’ "Clowns are two-dimensional. We’re three-dimensional professionals." She pulled out the laminated floor plan she’d printed from Google Maps and circled their route in neon highlighter. "Service hallway, storage closet, acquire the goods, back door—” Bill’s breathing hitched. "Storage closet? That’s where they put the presents during the ‘Pin the Tail on the Donkey’ emergency." He clutched her sleeve. "Molls, what if we get stuck next to the bongo drums?" A hyperactive Terrier shot past them, dragging a stolen yo-yo like a chew toy. Molly didn’t flinch. "Timing’s everything. We move when the human piñata is lit. Smoke, distraction, and vanishes." Bill gulped. "What if Timmy screams? Kids scream like emergency sirens. Remember the pigeon incident of ’22?” Molly exhaled through her nose. "That was a flock of pigeons and you’re mixing it up with the time you tried to eat expired gummy vitamins." She double-checked her lock picks—the rainbow ones, because why not—and then paused. A tiny human cannonball in a dinosaur costume cannonballed straight toward them. Molly tucked into a shadow so fast Bill nearly bowled himself over. The kid skidded to a halt just inches from Bill’s shoe, stared at his face, then shrieked, “MONSTER!” and ricocheted into the cake table. Bill gave a shaky thumbs-up. “Plot armor activated.”