Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GR8ZSDAJKGD1DKD7Z9SR13

Molly unrolled the blueprint across the diner table: a crayon drawing of a suburban backyard, complete with a balloon arch labeled PERIMETER and a bounce house marked NO-FLY ZONE. Bill studied it like it was Fort Knox. They had survived bank vaults, laser grids, and one traumatizing museum job in Lisbon. But children's parties were different. Chaos. Sugar-rushed civilians. Parents with phone cameras. A golden retriever patrolling the gift table that was, per Molly's reconnaissance, belly-rub vulnerable but otherwise ruthless. The target: Tommy Henderson's seventh birthday, Saturday, two p.m. Forty presents minimum, wrapped, untraceable. The piñata at three would provide the perfect diversion—every child in a ten-meter radius blinded by candy frenzy. No alarms, no lasers, just juice boxes. "I still say we abort," Bill said. Molly rolled up the blueprint. "It's forty presents. We're professionals." She was right, as usual. That was the trouble with Molly: her plans worked. The Lisbon job had worked. The beanie baby job had worked. Bill sighed and reached for the duffel bag containing his costume: a full-body pink pony suit, saddle included. "The tail chafes," he said. Molly smiled, for the first time in weeks. "Chafe with dignity, Bill. Chafe with dignity."