Run: 2026-10-05-01M46BKST62RRT18RT639B81QB

Molly spread the birthday invitation across their table, flattening a glittery unicorn with her elbow. “We’re stealing presents from a children’s party. We need dignity.” “Then why did you buy matching raccoon masks?” “Branding, Bill. People trust consistency, even when consistency involves criminals dressed like deeply disappointed suburban woodland accountants.” Bill inspected the invitation through his reading glasses, which made him resemble a fraudulent dentist. “It says fancy dress.” “Exactly. You’re the magician.” “I can’t do magic.” “You made our rent disappear.” “That was cryptocurrency.” “Same thing, but magicians usually get invited back for cake afterward by surprisingly forgiving people.” Molly turned over a notebook, revealing diagrams of balloons and one extremely judgmental stick figure. “Who’s that?” “The birthday child.” “Why does she have a sword?” “It’s a balloon.” “Why does the balloon have blood on it?” “That’s jam. Stop making everything sinister. We’re professionals, not dramatists with childhood trauma.” Bill opened their equipment bag and extracted rubber gloves, a shopping sack, and emergency antacids. “We take everything?” “Every present.” “Even educational toys?” “Especially those. Rich parents pay fortunes for wooden objects that teach children disappointment.” “What about the cards?” “Leave them. We’re thieves, Bill, not actual completely irredeemable monsters.” A party horn rolled across the table. Bill watched it with mistrust reserved for snakes. “How do we avoid the parents?” “Confidence. Carry a clipboard.” “What’s on it?” “A list of allergies.” “Whose allergies?” “Ours. You’re allergic to confrontation, and I develop hives when asked to fund communal retirement gifts.” Molly produced a photograph of the venue. Bill leaned closer, then stopped chewing his pencil. “That’s my sister’s house.” “You said your sister lived somewhere terrible.” “Yes. Suburbia.” “You know the birthday child?” “She’s my niece.” “Then we’ve got inside knowledge.” “She’s six. She knows all my deepest personal failures.” The unicorn on the invitation seemed suddenly smug. Molly covered its face with a coaster. “Fine. We cancel.” “We can’t. I already promised to come.” “As a magician?” “As a responsible adult.” “That’s a much harder trick.” “She specifically requested you, too.” “Why?” “Apparently, you look like her cartoon villain.” Bill rummaged through the bag again, retrieving two unopened toys purchased for their cover story. “We bought decoy presents.” “Technically, investments.” “Could we simply give her these?” “And leave empty-handed?” “They’ll have cake.” “Molly, that’s not stealing.” “It is if we take more than our share and conceal slices elsewhere.” Molly crossed out the heist plan and wrote CAKE beneath it in determined capital letters. “We still need an escape strategy.” “Before the cleanup.” “And if your sister catches us?” “Say you have another booking.” “Doing what?” “Magic.” “Bill, I cannot stress enough how little magic either of us possesses.” Bill pocketed the invitation while Molly reluctantly returned their raccoon masks to the equipment bag. “What if she asks us to help wash dishes?” “We vanish.” “Finally, a trick we can perform.” “Together?” “Obviously. Partners.” “And the presents?” “Let the kid keep them. We’ll rob somebody taller, with less glitter.”