Run: 2026-07-01-01KWEACYEWV7XHNXQ6SXM03NEJ

The warehouse smelled of stale popcorn and desperation, which suited Bill just fine since those were his two favorite things after money. He spread the blueprints across a folding table that wobbled like a drunk flamingo, jabbing his finger at a crude drawing of a suburban backyard. "The intel says twelve presents, minimum," Bill said, adjusting his fake mustache for the fourth time in as many minutes. "Bounce house is a blind spot. We go in through there." Molly leaned over the table, her eyes narrowing with the intensity of a surgeon planning an operation, if that surgeon also moonlighted as a criminal. She'd spent three weeks infiltrating a birthday party planning forum to nail down the exact timeline of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. "There's a piñata," she said gravely. "Full of candy. We take that too." Bill nodded solemnly, as if she'd just informed him of a rival gang's territory. Stealing from six-year-olds required the same tactical precision as any bank job, arguably more, since six-year-olds had surprisingly loyal parents and questionable trust in strangers wearing clown costumes. "Clowns," Molly muttered, already sliding into her oversized shoes. "Nobody suspects the clowns." Bill grinned, painting on his final layer of face paint. "That's exactly what makes us dangerous."