Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ08YGDCQJBWPZNCRZT8VA7S

Molly adjusted her night-vision goggles and frowned at the pastel-colored fortress before them. The Thompson residence looked less like a suburban home and more like a baby shower had exploded across an entire property. Streamers drooped from every gutter, a bounce castle loomed in the side yard like a vinyl mountain, and somewhere inside, thirty-seven neatly wrapped packages waited for the taking. She straightened the cone-shaped hat perched on her head and turned to her partner, who was currently wrestling with a synthetic beard that smelled like warehouse chemicals. Bill tugged at the puffy purple sleeves of his wizard costume and scowled. "We look like midlife crisis cosplayers." "We look like entertainment," Molly said, checking her watch. "The pinata drops at four. Parents start drinking. We slip through the kitchen, grab the loot, and vanish before the candles. Clean." "Simple?" Bill patted the oversized wand in his belt loop. It was a repurposed curtain rod. "You made me memorize fake spells." "Method acting. Now focus." She unzipped her star-patterned robe to reveal a reinforced duffel bag strapped to her chest. The target sat just beyond the sliding glass doors: a gift table groaning under the weight of bicycles, gaming consoles, and what appeared to be a life-sized plush giraffe. Molly had done the reconnaissance. Mom had gone full Pinterest. Dad had gone into debt. The thieves were going to walk away with fifteen hundred dollars in STEM kits alone. A shriek of laughter erupted from inside as what sounded like a herd of elephants wearing sneakers thundered past the front window. Bill flinched so hard his beard rotated ninety degrees. "Twenty children," Molly said, consulting her laminated floor plan. "Ages four through six. One mediocre magician doing card tricks by the fruit punch. We bypass the cupcakes, avoid the chaperone with the tactical mom haircut, and nobody gets hurt." "What about the dog?" "Wearing a party hat. Non-threatening unless you're a chicken nugget." Bill studied the map like it was the invasion of Normandy. His hands trembled slightly, though that might have been the cheap polyester sleeves chafing his wrists. He had spent the car ride complaining that professionals of their caliber belonged in Monte Carlo, not lifting raffle baskets from a juice-box crowd. Then she mentioned the PlayStation bundles and he stopped objecting. Molly crouched low behind the azalea bushes. In the distance, a parent started the pinata countdown over a microphone, the Spanish numbers echoing with funeral seriousness across the manicured lawn. "Three minutes," Molly whispered, tightening her grip on her wand—a crowbar spray-painted metallic gold. "Candy hits the deck, chaos begins, we move." Bill finally secured his beard with electrical tape. "This is definitely going to work." "You said that in Akron." "That skylight was structurally unsound. You fell through a buffet table in Cincinnati." Molly sighed. "If anyone asks, we're Gringotts consultants from the accounting department." "Thought we were Dumbledore's elderly cousins from accounting." "Consultants sound more corporate. Now smile. We're liberating plastic from capitalist oppression." "We're stealing unassembled Legos." "Same exact thing." "Very high-value plastic construction materials." The first crack of the pinata echoed through the yard, followed by a primal roar that would have humbled a lions' den. Molly tapped her wand against her palm and narrowed her eyes at the sliding glass doors. Showtime.