Run: 2026-10-07-01M4ATCJKAMYCSAH8D20PE99BB

Molly adjusted the night-vision goggles over her cat-eye sunglasses, squinting at the suburban cul-de-sac where the Hendersons were hosting little Timmy's seventh birthday bash. Through the rain-streaked window of their battered panel van, the bounce house looked like a neon pink fortress of doom, guarded by a platoon of sugar-fueled toddlers and at least three mothers who appeared to be carrying tasers disguised as wine bottles. String lights twinkled overhead, casting a festive glow over the gift table that sat in the corner like a shrine to consumerism. "This is totally insane," Bill whispered, clutching his lock-picking kit with white-knuckled determination. "We're talking about stealing from actual children who believe in Santa Claus." He was wearing a trench coat that had definitely seen better decades, and his ski mask had a suspiciously cheerful smiley face embroidered on it. The fabric was pilled and smelled faintly of regret and old sandwiches. Beside him, Molly studied her clipboard with the intensity of a general planning an invasion, her pencil hovering over a map covered in crayon-drawn X's marking the gift table. "They'll live," Molly said, tapping the map. "That kid's getting a limited edition gaming console. Do you know what those go for?" Bill leaned closer, his breath fogging the window. He watched as a small child in a superhero cape tripped over a garden hose and began wailing. The sound echoed through the quiet street. Bill flinched visibly, his shoulders hunching beneath the weight of his trench coat. "I feel like we're monsters," he admitted. "You're wearing a smiley-face ski mask," Molly pointed out, not looking up from her notes. "You committed to the bit." Outside, the party reached a crescendo. A clown juggled flaming torches near the trampoline, while parents argued about organic frosting in the kitchen. The presents sat wrapped and gleaming under the lights, totally unguarded except for a sleeping golden retriever wearing a party hat. "See?" Molly said, consulting her clipboard. "It's practically a victimless crime. We swoop in during the cake moment and vanish before anyone notices the loot." "What about the clown?" Bill asked, his voice dropping to a horrified whisper. "Ronald McDonald knock-offs are unpredictable," Molly agreed, her eyes widening. "Last time, one tried to recruit me into a pyramid scheme." "We go through the doggy door," Bill decided, pulling out a grappling hook. "I measured it. I can fit if I suck in my ambition." Molly produced a whoopee cushion the size of a car tire, grinning wickedly. She adjusted her own matching smiley-face mask. The van's engine coughed to life, rattling the chain-link fence outside. Bill looked at the bounce house, then at the pile of presents visible through the Hendersons' bay window, glistening like treasure. "I was born ready," he lied, buckling his seatbelt with trembling hands. "Let's steal some joy." "To childhood trauma," Molly toasted, raising a lukewarm energy drink. "May we be swift and merciless." "And may nobody recognize us," Bill added, clinking his can against hers. "Especially not little Timmy." "Your heart is the size of a walnut," Molly said, starting the engine. "Now buckle up. We're going to party."