Run: 2026-10-07-01M4AVKTFRB595VB9FV0R86H8R

The dim glow of a flickering streetlamp cast long shadows across the alley where Molly and Bill huddled behind a stack of discarded party decorations. The scent of stale confetti and balloon rubber clung to the air as Molly adjusted her oversized reindeer antlers, the velvet itching her scalp. "Remind me again why we’re robbing a bunch of six-year-olds," Bill muttered, tugging at his ill-fitting Santa beard. It kept slipping, revealing the scowl beneath. Molly rolled her eyes. "Because, genius, rich kids get rich presents. Ever seen a kid unwrap an iPad and then just toss it aside for the next one? Goldmine." Bill scratched his chin, the beard now crooked. "Yeah, but what if one of them recognizes us? Last time we pulled a job, that kid at the bakery drew our faces on a napkin and called the cops." Molly smirked. "Relax. We’ll be in and out before the cake’s even cut. Besides, we’re in disguise." She gestured to their outfits—Bill in his Santa getup, herself in a sequined elf costume that sparkled under the dim light. Bill sighed. "I look like a mall Santa who lost a fight with a lawnmower." "And I look like a glitter bomb went off in my worst nightmare. Happy?" Molly checked her watch. "Five minutes till the piñata. That’s our cue. The parents will be too busy filming their little darlings swinging a stick at a papier-mâché donkey to notice us." Bill adjusted his sack, the bulge of lockpicks and a crowbar straining the fabric. "What’s the play? Sneak in through the back?" Molly shook her head. "Too obvious. We’re going in through the front—bold as brass. You’re Santa, I’m your elf. We’ll ‘deliver’ a last-minute present, then ‘accidentally’ take the wrong ones on our way out." Bill groaned. "So we’re just walking out with armfuls of toys while the parents clap?" "Exactly. And if anyone asks, we’re just ‘spreading holiday cheer.’" Molly grinned. "Now, stop whining and fluff that beard. You look like you’re smuggling a squirrel in there." Bill scowled but obeyed, puffing the fake white fluff until it obscured half his face. "Fine. But if I have to sing ‘Jingle Bells’ to sell this, I’m leaving you here." Molly patted his shoulder. "Just follow my lead. And for the love of all things holy, don’t call any of the kids ‘sport.’" Bill opened his mouth to protest, but Molly was already striding toward the glowing house, her jingle bell shoes chiming with every step. Bill sighed, hoisted his sack higher, and lumbered after her, muttering, "This is the dumbest heist we’ve ever pulled." Molly tossed a glance over her shoulder, her grin sharp. "No, that was the pet store. Remember the parrot?"