Run: 2026-03-18-01KM096FQ4ZVTSSSN556NHETE0

Molly adjusted the fake mustache for the third time that evening, her eyes locked onto the blueprints of the McAllister mansion penthouse. The layout was simple enough—front door, narrow hallway, and a party room bursting with games, cake, and, most importantly, presents wrapped in enough glitter to require a hazmat suit. The penthouse above the party was a glitter bomb waiting to detonate at any second—metaphorically, of course. Bill, now a clown for the third time that week (after the pirate costume that made him look seasick and the failed mime routine where he tripped into the cake), gnawed nervously on a licorice whip stolen from the craft services table. The shoes, two sizes too small and squeaking like a teakettle with every step, announced his presence long before he arrived, like a foghorn in a library or the world’s most awkward dinner guest. 'Madness.' Molly didn’t look up from the blueprints, where she’d circled the escape route in what she called 'strategic pink highlighter.' 'Cynicism?' Bill groaned. 'If caught—' 'Whining noted.' She tossed him a pillowcase that had seen better days and smelled faintly of apple juice. 'Fast steals, slow exits. And no singing.' 'No balloons. Or noses.' 'Deal.' They stared at each other, two disgraced professionals reduced to breaking into a party full of sugar-fueled toddlers wearing plastic tiaras and superhero capes. Some were probably plotting their first bank heist already. This was either the heist of the century or a one-way ticket to the principal’s office—assuming the parents didn’t tackle them to the ground first.