Run: 2026-07-01-01KWE986TEP3G2WTWC81XX5JCD

The rain hammered against the windshield of the van, and Bill was still wearing that ridiculous fake mustache he'd insisted on buying from the party store. "Take it off," Molly said, not looking up from the blueprints spread across her lap. "You look like a walrus had a mid-life crisis." "It's for the disguise, Molly. We're supposed to be caterers." "Caterers don't wear mustaches that make them look like they're compensating for something." Bill huffed but peeled it off anyway, sticking it to the dashboard where it curled at the edges like a dying caterpillar. "Fine. But when this whole thing goes sideways because nobody recognizes us as legitimate party staff, I'm blaming the mustache decision on you." "The mustache decision was never mine. I have never once in my criminal career suggested facial hair as a disguise strategy." Outside, the Wilkinson residence glowed with pastel balloons and a bounce house shaped like a castle, utterly oblivious to the fact that two professional thieves were parked across the street casing the joint for a seven-year-old's birthday party. "Okay, focus," Molly said, tapping the blueprint. "The presents table is set up in the dining room, right next to the cake. Twenty-three kids means twenty-three presents, minimum, probably more because rich parents overcompensate." "That's a lot of Legos to steal from children, Molly." "We've stolen bigger things from worse people." "We stole a Fabergé egg from a Russian oligarch. This is a Frozen-themed birthday party." "Money is money, Bill. A stolen PlayStation is still a stolen PlayStation whether it belongs to a mobster or a kid named Tyler." Bill rubbed his temples, the way he always did when he was about to lose an argument he knew he'd already lost three minutes ago. "There's going to be a bouncy castle attendant. And a magician. Possibly a clown." "I've factored in the clown." "You've factored in the clown." "Clowns are notoriously unobservant. It's a documented phenomenon. Something about the face paint restricting peripheral vision." "That's not a real thing." "It's real enough for our purposes." The van fell silent except for the rain and the distant sound of children shrieking with the particular joy that only comes from unlimited cake and inflatable structures. Bill stared at the house, at the pink and gold banner reading HAPPY 7TH BIRTHDAY EMMA, and felt something that might have been the faintest whisper of conscience. "They're gonna be so sad, Molly." "They'll get new presents. Insurance exists for a reason." "That's remarkably cynical, even for you." "I contain multitudes, Bill. Now put the mustache back on. We've got a party to crash and roughly forty minutes before the sugar high wears off and this becomes considerably harder." Bill sighed, peeling the mustache off the dashboard and pressing it back above his lip with the resigned dignity of a man who had made peace with his terrible life choices roughly a decade ago. "For the record," he said, "I still think this is a new low." "Noted and ignored," Molly said, already reaching for the door handle. "Let's go steal a seven-year-old's birthday."