Run: 2026-03-18-01KM0APCMA9JS02H8N7VJBQ812

“Molly,” Bill whispered, peering through the rain-streaked alley window, “tell me again why we are targeting a room full of six-year-olds and streamers.” “Because,” Molly said, flattening a stolen floor plan against a crate of sour apples, “the children are distracted, the parents are exhausted, and the presents are stacked like a jewel vault made of wrapping paper.” “Jewel vaults usually have alarms.” “So do children,” Molly said. “They’re called shrieking.” Bill frowned. “I still think this is ethically muddy.” “It’s a party, Bill. Not a monastery.” “I once robbed a monastery.” “And they still talk about the candlesticks,” Molly said. “Focus. You go in as the balloon delivery man.” “I don’t know how to do balloon delivery.” “Neither do balloon delivery men. They just arrive with a desperate smile.” Bill adjusted his cap. “What if the birthday child asks why I have a lockpick in my pocket?” “Say it’s a balloon inflator.” “Does that sound convincing to you?” “Not remotely, but children accept nonsense faster than adults.” Bill squinted at the map. “Why are there three entrances, two dogs, and a bouncy castle?” “Because the party planner was a psychopath.” “The dog section worries me.” “The dogs are tiny.” “That makes them worse.” “Fine. You distract them with sausage rolls.” “I don’t have sausage rolls.” “You will,” Molly said, producing a foil tray from her coat. “I borrowed them.” “You stole sausage rolls from the caterer?” “I prefer the term pre-looted.” Bill sighed. “You do realize that if this goes wrong, we’ll be beaten by a roomful of toddlers armed with novelty hats.” “Then don’t let it go wrong.” A burst of music thumped from the townhouse above them. Bill winced. “That song has been playing for twenty minutes.” “It’s called the happy birthday remix.” “It sounds like a blender falling down stairs.” “Good. Everyone will be too emotionally disoriented to notice us.” Bill leaned closer. “What exactly is the plan once we’re inside?” “Simple,” Molly said. “You compliment the grandparents, you fake a call from the florist, I enter the gift mountain, and we load the presents into the dessert cart.” “Dessert cart?” “From the kitchen.” “We’re stealing in a dessert cart?” “Bill, this is high-end criminality. We have standards.” He rubbed his temples. “And what about the presents with names on them?” “We’ll take everything. Sorting is for honest people.” “That is the most selfish thing you have ever said.” Molly smiled. “Thank you.” Bill glanced out at the street. “There’s a clown at the front door.” “That’s not a clown.” “It has face paint.” “That’s the uncle.” “Oh.” “Exactly. Blend in. Clowns and thieves are both unnerving in different fonts.” Bill straightened his tie. “Molly, if we are caught, I want it known that I protested.” “Noted.” “And if we are not caught?” “Then we’re entrepreneurs.” “You’re impossible.” “And yet,” Molly said, lifting the crate, “I’m the one with the blueprint and the sausage rolls.” Bill took the crate and muttered, “I hate how effective you are.” They moved toward the townhouse, where laughter spilled through the curtains and the smell of icing drifted onto the wet pavement. “Ready?” Molly asked. “No.” “Good. Confidence is for amateurs.” Bill gave the smallest of grins. “If this works, we’re retiring.” “We’re thieves, Bill. We don’t retire. We just become suspiciously well-dressed.” “Well,” he said, “in that case, let’s go rob a child’s birthday and ruin several lives with style.” “Now you’re talking,” Molly said, and together they walked up the steps, carrying sausage rolls, a dessert cart, and the sort of optimism that only appears right before disaster.