Run: 2026-07-01-01KWE8Y6F6V0A78XTWTDSH9055

The rain hammered against the warehouse windows as Molly spread the blueprints across the rickety table, her finger tracing the outline of a modest suburban house on Maple Street. Bill leaned over her shoulder, chewing on a toothpick like it owed him money. "Bounce house is the blind spot," Molly said, tapping a red circle near the backyard fence. "Nobody watches a bounce house once the sugar hits." Bill grunted, unimpressed. He'd robbed banks, jewelry stores, one particularly memorable art gallery in Prague, and yet here he was, forty-three years old, planning to rob a six-year-old's birthday party. "There's gotta be twenty presents in there," Molly continued, pulling out a crumpled invitation she'd swiped from the mailbox. "Easy Bake Ovens, Lego sets, probably a bike or two." "Feels wrong," Bill muttered, though he didn't put down the toothpick. "Insurance fraud is wrong, Bill. This is just—" she waved a hand vaguely, "—redistribution." He snorted. Outside, thunder rolled like a drumroll for their terrible idea. Molly folded the blueprint and stuffed it into her jacket, already mentally rehearsing her disguise as a clumsy party clown. Bill just shook his head, grabbed his coat, and followed her out into the storm, muttering about karma the entire way.