Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCSH04WA1DWNS78KM68BY14

Molly spread the map across the dashboard, her disguise black leggings and a hoodie with crooked cat ears hot-glued in panic. Outside, rain drummed the roof like an impatient cop. "Six sharp. Castle in yard, thirty kids on sugar crash, parents in cheap wine. By eight dead, gifts are ours." She circled a castle with a chewed pen, eyeing Bill's shaky hands. "Robbing kids?" "Liberating plastic from capitalism's tiniest victims. Tyler's console costs three months rent. We're taxes with ski masks." Bill scratched his neck, gloves smelling like Tuesday's failure. He hated her logic, especially now. "You cried over kombucha. Not Hood." "That was eight dollars of probiotic betrayal! You're elf—angry, underpaid, cursed. Wear this." The hat landed like defeat. She shoved the glitter sack into his chest, adjusting her ears with criminal pride. "Pointy shoes dead. Arch enemies." "Boots then, suffer majestically. Enter at cake, vanish before magician pulls ferrets from pants." Bill pocketed a candy-cane pick, sighed at the ceiling, accepting ball-pit destiny. "I claim electronics. You get socks and regret." "Deal. Sack's leakier than your alibi—check it." "Any alarms?" "Just a dad with iPad and false confidence. We're fine." Molly started the van; it coughed like a burglar in kindergarten, heading for chaos and cake.