Run: 2026-04-24-01KPZTVZXCY3P1H43FERBA4M9H

Molly spread the blueprints across the sticky diner table, weighing the corners down with ketchup bottles and a half-eaten plate of hash browns. The layout of the Chuckles the Clown Party Palace looked deceptively simple, but she knew better. Ball pits were tactical nightmares. Bill leaned in, squinting through his reading glasses, which he'd stolen last Tuesday from a librarian who probably hadn't even noticed yet. The party in question belonged to one Timothy Weatherford, age seven, whose father happened to be a hedge fund manager with a gift-giving problem. Word on the street was that little Timmy's guest list read like a Forbes nursery-school edition, and every pint-sized attendee was expected to arrive bearing tribute. "That's a lot of Legos," Bill murmured. Molly tapped the emergency exit with a chipped fingernail. Their plan hinged on timing: strike during the piñata, when chaos reigned and adults were distracted by flying candy shrapnel. She'd dress as a face painter. Bill would pose as the balloon animal guy, though his twisted creations tended to resemble anatomical diagrams more than giraffes. "Kids bite," he added, rubbing an old scar. She smiled grimly and circled the loot table in red Sharpie.