Run: 2026-03-25-01KMJ8Q6Y63FB2VCJ6R09Y4VSB

"Alright," Molly said, tossing the file onto the sticky kitchen table, "let me see if I’ve got this straight: tonight, we’re robbing a third-grade birthday party?" She flicked the perp’s name off the paper—*Eugene*—and stared at Bill, who was currently using her apartment’s single outlet to power both their laptops and a blender he claimed was "prepping protein shakes for the stealth crew." Bill grinned, whirring the blender to a stop with a squish of mango nectar. "Fifth-grade party," he corrected, pouring the drink into a mug. "And don’t call it robbing. I call it *early holiday shopping*. Where else can you find 20 unattended gift boxes with GPS tracking?" Molly pressed a finger to her temple. "The gifts have tracking chips. The parents have FaceTimed the police since the kid opened the first box with a receipt on it." "Details, Mo." He sipped his drink. "What could possibly go wrong? There’s cake, toys, balloons. It’s like a casino for toddlers." "Except instead of lasers, it’s glitter," she deadpanned. "This place is a booby-trapped gumball machine. The DJ alone has enough snacks to bury us." Bill wheeled toward her, slapping the blueprint across the table. Wreaths. Cupcakes. A piñata shaped like a dragon. "Piece of cake," he said. "We dress as clowns." Molly stared. "Clowns. You fear clowns more than I fear taxes." "Sure, but civilians fear clowns *less*. Also, we’re not clowns—we’re *carnival mascots*! There’s a curtsy in that line." He struck a pose, knocking over the salt shaker in the process. "You’ll wear a sparkly unicorn costume. I’ll wear a grumpy robot. We’re harmless!" "Grumpy robot with a crowbar? Real subtle," Molly said, already Googling "children’s party dress code for criminals." "Hey, subtletance got its pants stolen by creativity," Bill replied. "Look, they’ll focus on the magic trick we’re ‘performing.’ While we’re sawing into that piñata—" Molly snorted. "The dragon piñata is filled with party hats. You’d hit rock bottom." "Exactly! New plan: replace the piñata with a knockoff brand of… miniature slot machines! Kids love gambling." "Bill. You cannot introduce gambling to children in a country where you can’t even buy a coconut cream pie without a 17-page liability form." "Then we hot-wire the DJ setup. Distraction. Blackout. The second the lights are out, we yank the tinsel trees and hollow them out like holiday gift umbrellas." Molly blinked. "Tinsel trees?" "Sure. Color-coding!" He spread his arms. "Red tinsel, red gifts. We’ll have a personalized sorting system. It’s poetic." She dragged a hand through her hair. "You’re impossible." "Talented, though. Remember the time I thermally grafted pear juice onto that Sotheby’s cheese so the thief left it for the obvious one?" "Lasted 37 seconds." "Still genius. Tonight’s a cake walk." "Bill," Molly said, her voice low and sharp, "the entrance has a *motion-activated bubble machine*." He froze. "Bubbles… form early alliances in life. That’s a *feature*." "Right. Because you’ve handled alliances before." She opened the door, gesturing out. "Run faster." Bill sighed, slinging his gear bag over his shoulder. "You miss the suspense. Tomorrow, we’ll be sipping hot cocoa in my new, not-jail apartment, surrounded by $800 worth of straws and a kid’s paint-by-numbers set of the Eiffel Tower." Molly paused at the threshold. "Bill?" "Yeah?" "One of us needs to take up balloon animals." "Already on it. Learned three from a guy who cried during the cake." "God help us," she muttered, stepping into the neon-lit world of glitter and doom.