Run: 2026-07-01-01KWE8QS74DC1KEGYGX622DG32

The warehouse smelled like stale popcorn and desperation, which Bill supposed was appropriate given their current line of work. He spread the blueprints across a folding table that wobbled on three legs, jabbing a finger at what appeared to be a bounce house. "This is our target," he said. "Timmy Fenwick's seventh birthday party. Eleven presents, minimum. Possibly a bike." Molly leaned over the plans, chewing gum with the intensity of someone solving a murder. "There's a clown." "I know there's a clown." "Bill, I have a thing about clowns." "Everyone has a thing about clowns. It's not relevant to the mission." She tapped a small circle labeled PONY. "And this?" "A rented pony. Non-issue." Molly straightened up, cracking her knuckles like she was preparing for battle rather than robbing a suburban backyard of Paw Patrol merchandise. "So what's the plan? We just walk in, take the presents, and walk out past thirty screaming children and their clown?" Bill grinned, pulling two tiny party hats from his jacket pocket with the flourish of a magician revealing his final trick. "We're not thieves today, Molly. We're entertainment." She stared at the hats, then at him, then back at the hats. "I hate this plan already." "You'll hate it more when you see the balloon animals."