Run: 2026-10-05-01M46B944EJ4TSKP5SBMM44MJP

“We are not robbing a bank, Bill. We're robbing a birthday party. Try to look less like someone who argues with cash machines for sport.” Molly spread the invitation across their kitchen table. It featured a smiling dinosaur whose glittery eyes seemed to judge both their morals and overdue rent. “I object to your tone. Also, the invitation says presents optional. What if everyone brings heartfelt wishes? You can't sell heartfelt wishes behind the laundromat.” Bill adjusted his burglar's cap, a woolen monstrosity that made him resemble a depressed mushroom. Molly nudged a photograph of the birthday boy toward him. “His father owns six hotels. His mother owns a racehorse. Last year they gave him a miniature submarine. Nobody here is bringing homemade friendship bracelets.” The photograph showed a child wearing a velvet cape and holding a cake knife with the serene authority of a tiny, recently crowned European monarch. “That boy looks dangerous. He's seven going on tax auditor. What happens if he notices us? I won't fight anyone still losing their baby teeth.” Molly tapped her notebook. Inside, she had written OPERATION PARTY POOPER, then crossed out POOPER because even criminals needed standards. Bill found this distinction deeply reassuring. “We arrive as entertainers, take every present, and leave before cake. Nobody gets hurt. Nobody cries. Except possibly you when they offer unpaid balloon work.” Bill glanced at the costumes hanging beside the refrigerator. One was a magician's cape. The other was an enormous chicken with disturbingly realistic rubber knees. “Why am I the chicken? Every job, I'm the chicken. In Brighton, I was poultry. In Leeds, poultry. Again. My criminal career has become agricultural.” She lifted the chicken head from its chair. A receipt fluttered out, reminding them that their entire disguise budget had gone toward premium flameproof plumage. “Because you have range, Bill. You can convey menace through feathers. Besides, the magician must distract the children, and your last trick involved actual bankruptcy.” Bill remembered the vanished coin, the vanished wallet, and the surprisingly permanent disappearance of his savings account. He conceded the point with a wounded cluck. “Fine. But stealing all the presents feels excessive. Could we leave him something? A puzzle? A book? That terrifying portrait of himself dressed as Napoleon?” Molly looked again at the photograph. For a moment her expression softened. Then she noticed the racehorse standing behind him wearing a matching velvet cape. “We leave the books. Nobody should grow up without stories. And we leave anything alive. I refuse to spend another getaway apologizing to stolen hamsters.” Outside, rain rattled against the window. Inside, Bill squeezed into the chicken suit and immediately knocked their last clean mug onto the kitchen's sticky floor. “One final question, Molly. If the birthday boy requests a chicken dance, am I allowed artistic freedom? Or must I maintain strict professional criminal dignity?” Molly surveyed the feathers, the broken mug, and their ambitious notebook. Then she added a final instruction beneath the plan: absolutely no accepting party bags.