Run: 2026-09-23-01M36V5BCV252DZEPK92BHXSWV

Molly pressed her eye to the keyhole of the ballroom. Three seven-year-olds ran in circles around a clown named Mister Sprinkles, whose enormous red shoes squeaked against the hardwood floor. Wrapping paper covered every surface like a bomb had detonated. On the far table sat a mountain of presents wrapped in dinosaur paper and glittering bows—bicycles, dolls, stuffed animals, one suspiciously large box that might contain a pony. "Tell me again why we're robbing children," Molly whispered. "Professional standards, Molls. No target is beneath us." "That is honestly the stupidest thing anyone has ever said to me." Bill unfolded a crumpled napkin and jabbed a finger at it. "When the piñata drops at exactly two fifteen, there'll be chaos. We grab the presents while everyone's distracted." "What about the adults?" "Two moms on mimosas by the window. Not paying attention. I say we spike the punch bowl." "We are not spiking a punch bowl at a seven-year-old's birthday party." "Fine. Then we wait for pass-the-parcel. Absolute chaos, that." Molly watched as Mister Sprinkles sat on a balloon, producing a sound like a dying goose. "Alright," she said. "But we leave the unicorn piñata alone." "Obviously. But make it fast."