Run: 2026-10-07-01M4AT1ZYY921025BQ52XG704Z

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 sugar and excitement just beyond the garden fence. Molly adjusted her black ski mask, the sequins she’d glued on catching the light. "You sure this is the right house? Last time you swore the safe was in the kitchen, and it turned out to be a toaster." Bill scowled, shuffling a crumpled invitation in his pocket. "It’s the right one. The invite says ‘Pirate Pete’s Plunder Party.’ That’s code for ‘we’ve got a mountain of loot.’" "Or code for ‘we’ve got a mountain of five-year-olds hopped up on cake.’" Molly peeked over the fence. The backyard was a riot of color—bouncing castles, a piñata shaped like a treasure chest, and a table groaning under the weight of wrapped presents. "We’re really doing this, huh? Stealing from babies?" "Not babies. Rich kids. There’s a difference." Bill pulled out a grappling hook with a sigh. "Besides, have you seen the price of rent lately? A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do." Molly rolled her eyes. "A man’s gotta stop whining and start climbing." She nodded at the fence. "I’ll go first. If I get caught, you distract them with your world-famous dad jokes." Bill gasped, clutching his chest. "Those jokes are a national treasure. I’ll have you know they’ve disarmed security guards and melted the hearts of—" "Old ladies at bingo. Yeah, I’ve heard." Molly hoisted herself over the fence with practiced ease, landing silently on the other side. Bill, less graceful, snagged his sleeve on a nail and let out a yelp. A head popped up from behind the piñata—a kid in a pirate hat, squinting at them. "Who are you?" Molly froze. Bill, ever the quick thinker, dropped to one knee and boomed, "We’re the surprise entertainers! Ever seen a man juggle his own dignity?" The kid blinked. "No?" "Then you’re in for a treat." Bill pulled three rubber chickens from his coat and started tossing them in the air. The kid burst into giggles as one chicken smacked Bill in the face. Molly seized the moment, darting toward the present table. "Hurry up, Shakespeare. We’ve got a window." Bill caught the last chicken mid-air. "Right. But if we get caught, I’m blaming you. You’re the one who said this was a ‘low-risk’ job." Molly stuffed a gift bag under her arm. "It is low-risk. What’s the worst that could happen? A timeout?"