Run: 2026-10-07-01M4ASJ4QQYSBRZNSDNV7QN7BY

The dim glow of a flickering streetlamp cast long shadows across the alley where Molly and Bill crouched behind a stack of discarded party decorations. The scent of stale confetti and balloon rubber hung in the air, a far cry from the sugary aroma of the birthday cake they were about to swipe. Molly adjusted her black ski mask, the sequins she’d glued on for "flair" catching the light. "You sure this is the right house?" she whispered, squinting at the neon "Happy 8th Birthday, Timmy!" sign blinking in the window. Bill scratched his chin, leaving a smudge of face paint on his glove. "Positive. The invite said ‘no gifts over fifty bucks,’ but have you seen the size of that piñata? That thing’s stuffed with iPads." Molly smirked. "Or hope. Mostly hope." "Hope don’t pay the rent," Bill muttered, jiggling the lock on the back gate with a bobby pin. "Besides, Timmy’s got, what, a dozen cousins? They won’t miss a few presents." Molly rolled her eyes. "You’re a monster. A monster with a heart of gold-plated LEGO sets." The lock clicked. Bill grinned. "See? Even the universe agrees we’re doing the right thing." He pushed the gate open, wincing as it squeaked like a deflating whoopee cushion. Molly groaned. "Smooth, Bill. Real smooth. Now every kid in there thinks the clown’s early." They crept across the yard, dodging a minefield of half-deflated balloons. Inside, the party was in full swing—laughter, shrieks, and the unmistakable sound of a kazoo orchestra. Molly pressed herself against the wall, peering through a window. "There’s the loot. Under the table, next to the kid who’s currently eating frosting with his hands." Bill nodded. "Classic rookie mistake. Always guard the cake, never the presents." Molly elbowed him. "Focus. We’ve got, what, ten minutes before the parents start herding them into the ‘goodie bag’ phase?" "Plenty of time." Bill pulled a grappling hook from his pocket—more of a bent coat hanger, really—and gave it an optimistic swing. It landed in a bush. "Or we could just walk in." Molly sighed. "Fine. But if we get caught, I’m telling the cops you cried during the ‘Pin the Tail on the Donkey’ game." Bill gasped. "That was one time! And the donkey was *missing its tail*!" They exchanged a look, then straightened their masks and marched toward the back door, blending in with the chaos like two very suspicious party crashers. The plan was simple: grab, stuff, and run. What could go wrong?