Run: 2026-09-23-01M36TDAFPR5FNZAQ3VTXYM3DF

Molly stood outside the rented community hall on Peppermint Lane, notebook open, pencil behind her ear like a general surveying a battlefield. She had binoculars pressed to her face, scanning the window where streamers of every colour known to man and several that were not known to man swayed gently in the air conditioning. A banner read "Happy Birthday, Timmy!" in the sort of handwriting that made professional calligraphers weep. "This is the one," she said. Bill, who had been leaning against a lamppost eating a lollipop he'd found in his coat pocket from three months ago, peeled himself upright and squinted at the hall. "The one what?" "The job, Bill. The big one." "A children's party," he said flatly. "A children's party with approximately forty-seven presents stacked beneath a table covered in pink tissue paper. I've been counting from this window for six hours." "You should get a hobby," he muttered. Molly ignored him entirely. She had long ago learned that Bill's commentary was best treated like weather: unavoidable, sometimes unpleasant, and ultimately irrelevant to her plans. She flipped to the next page of her notebook, which contained a hand-drawn floor plan of the hall rendered with astonishing precision, including the locations of the karaoke machine, the inflatable slide, and what appeared to be a carefully labeled sketch of every balloon. "The present table is situated along the north wall," she said, pointing at her diagram with the authority of a surgeon. "The children will be clustered around the cake at the south end for the singing ceremony at fourteen-thirty. That gives us a window of approximately seven minutes during which the presents are unguarded." Bill scratched his chin thoughtfully. The thought was not forming. "And the children? What happens when they realise their loot has vanished?" "They're five years old, Bill. They will cry and someone will buy them ice cream and the universe will continue to turn." "That's dark," he said. "That's efficiency." She tucked the notebook into her jacket and produced two black balaclavas from the inside pocket. "Wear this." Bill held it up and looked at it like it had personally insulted his mother. "I'm not wearing a balaclava to steal from children." "Would you prefer to be identified?" "I'd prefer to be at home." Molly pressed the balaclava into his chest and turned away toward the hall, walking with the grim determination of someone who had built an entire career on stealing things that barely warranted stealing. She paused at the service entrance, tested the handle — unlocked, naturally, because nobody expects a heist at a five-year-old's birthday party — and glanced back at Bill, who stood motionless in the car park, lollipop still clamped between his teeth. "Are you coming?" she asked. "If I'm going to prison," he said slowly, "I'd like it to be for something worthwhile." "This will be worth at least forty-seven presents." Bill sighed. The sigh contained multitudes. He pulled the balaclava over his head and followed her inside, where the smell of chocolate cake and betrayal hung thick in the air.