Run: 2026-07-01-01KWE90B3Z6BASM0GMS4SQBN33

The warehouse smelled like stale popcorn and desperation, which Bill thought was fitting given their current career trajectory. He spread the blueprints across a card table that wobbled like it had commitment issues. "So the party's at 3 PM," Molly said, tracing a finger along the floor plan of the Hendricks residence. "Bounce house is our blind spot. Nobody watches the perimeter when there's a bounce house." Bill nodded, chewing on a red licorice whip like it owed him money. "And the presents?" "Dining room table. Wrapped like Fort Knox had a baby with Hallmark." "Security?" "One golden retriever named Biscuit. Allegedly ferocious. Actually just wants belly rubs." Bill frowned, the kind of frown that suggested moral complexity had entered a heist that really shouldn't have any. "We're stealing a seven-year-old's birthday presents." "We're liberating consumer goods from an unjust distribution system." "That's the dumbest thing you've ever said." "It's a Barbie Dreamhouse, Bill. There's probably a Malibu Ken in there worth actual money on the collector's market." He considered this. Ken did have a surprisingly robust resale value among a very specific, slightly unsettling demographic. "Fine," Bill said. "But I'm not wearing the clown costume again." "The children will expect a clown." "The children will expect cake, not felonies."