Run: 2026-07-01-01KWEAC9FBMECEYBFVXSK73BQ2

The warehouse smelled like stale popcorn and desperation, which suited Molly just fine as she spread the blueprints across an overturned crate. Bill leaned over her shoulder, chewing a piece of gum like it owed him money. "So the presents are in the living room," Molly said, tracing a finger along the floor plan she'd swiped from a party planning website. "Guarded by a bouncy castle and, according to my intel, at least four moms with wine." Bill frowned. "Wine moms are the worst kind of security. Unpredictable. Emotional." "Which is why we go in during the piñata." "The piñata?" "Maximum chaos, minimum supervision. Every kid in that backyard will be swinging a stick like it's the apocalypse. Nobody's watching the gift table." Bill nodded slowly, impressed despite himself. He'd worked with amateurs before—people who thought a ski mask and a getaway bike were enough. Molly thought in layers, in distractions, in the beautiful anarchy of seven-year-olds hopped up on sugar. "And if we get caught?" he asked. Molly smiled, folding the blueprint with the precision of a woman who'd done this before. "Then we say we're the clowns." "We don't have costumes." "We will by three o'clock."