Run: 2026-10-07-01M4ATMASQ4PPHKG89WKRYFPY1

Molly adjusted her Santa hat, the jingle bells sewn into the brim clinking softly. "You sure this is the right house? The sign says 'Happy Birthday, Timmy!' but the last party we hit was for a Timmy too." Bill squinted at the balloon archway. "Different Timmy. This one’s got a pony. The other had a clown. Clowns are worse." "Clowns are always worse," Molly agreed, peering through the window. "But look at that cake. Five tiers. That’s at least twenty grand in fondant." Bill rubbed his hands together. "And the presents. I count… twelve, no, fifteen gift bags. Big ones. Probably iPads." Molly smirked. "Or cold hard cash. Rich parents love gifting envelopes." "Envelopes are the best. No serial numbers." Bill adjusted his fake mustache. "You ready?" Molly checked her watch. "Piñata’s in ten. We go in when the kids swarm it." "Classic distraction. I love it." Bill patted his pockets. "Got the lockpicks?" "In my bra. Where else?" Bill sighed. "You’re gonna set off the metal detector again." "There’s a metal detector?" "Kid’s dad’s a cop. Of course there’s a metal detector." Molly groaned. "Fine. You carry them." Bill fished the picks out of her cleavage and winced. "These are warm." "Focus, Bill. We’ve got a window. The mom’s handing out cupcakes, the dad’s manning the grill, and the nanny’s texting in the corner." "Nanny’s always texting. What’s her deal?" "Probably running a side hustle. We should hire her." Bill snorted. "We can’t even afford a getaway car." "Speaking of, how’re we getting out?" "Borrowed a minivan. Stolen plates. Full of balloons." Molly raised an eyebrow. "Balloons?" "For camouflage. We’ll look like part of the party." "Or like we’re kidnapping a clown." Bill shrugged. "Better than last time." Molly groaned. "Don’t remind me." A child’s scream echoed from the backyard. The piñata had been struck. Bill grinned. "That’s our cue." Molly cracked her knuckles. "Let’s go ruin a child’s special day." Bill hesitated. "You think we’re the bad guys?" Molly grabbed his arm. "Nah. We’re just… redistributing joy." "To ourselves." "Exactly." She yanked him toward the back door. "Now move. Before the pony starts singing."