Run: 2026-07-01-01KWE9EJ52B8Q80H33AWW2PXGC

The warehouse smelled like stale pizza and desperation, which suited Molly and Bill just fine. Spread across a card table was a hand-drawn map of the Whitmore residence, complete with a suspiciously detailed illustration of a bounce house. "Twelve presents," Molly said, tapping the map with a highlighter. "All wrapped, all unattended for exactly four minutes during the piñata." Bill leaned back, chewing a straw like it owed him money. "You want us to rob six-year-olds." "I want us to rob their parents. The six-year-olds are just collateral damage." He didn't look convinced, but Bill rarely looked convinced of anything before noon. Molly had learned to push through his skepticism like a bulldozer through wet cardboard. "We go in dressed as clowns," she continued. "Nobody questions clowns at a birthday party. We entertain, we distract, we grab the loot bag by the cake table." "I'm not wearing the wig again." "You're wearing the wig, Bill." He groaned, dramatic as ever, and stared at the ceiling like it might offer him an exit. It didn't. Molly smiled, already picturing the swag - Legos, action figures, whatever overpriced garbage rich parents bought their kids. Heist of the century, disguised as clowns. What could possibly go wrong?