Run: 2026-10-07-01M4AVT7ZYB4XTXQKEDC1ZWPD5

Molly adjusted her Santa hat, the jingle bells sewn into the brim clinking softly. "You sure this is the right house? The sign says 'No Solicitors,' but I think that just means no door-to-door carolers." Bill squinted at the glowing reindeer on the lawn. "Yeah, this is it. The invite said 'Piles of Presents Under the Tree.' Sounds like a goldmine." "Or a trap," Molly muttered, eyeing the security camera above the door. "That thing’s probably recording us right now." Bill grinned. "Relax. We’re just two very enthusiastic party crashers." He pulled a clipboard from his coat. "See? I even made a fake RSVP list. Molly and Bill, plus one imaginary kid named Timmy." Molly snatched the clipboard. "Timmy? Really? That’s the best you could do?" "Timmy’s a classic. Timeless. Like the heist itself." She sighed. "Fine. But if we get caught, I’m blaming Timmy." She nodded toward the window. "Look, the parents are herding the kids into the living room for cake. That’s our cue." Bill rubbed his hands together. "Phase one: distraction. You cause a scene, I’ll slip in and grab the goods." Molly raised an eyebrow. "What kind of scene?" "Improvise. You’re good at that." She rolled her eyes. "Last time I improvised, you ended up in a dog pound." "That was an accident! And the dogs loved me." Molly took a deep breath. "Alright, but if I see so much as one cop car, I’m out. No heroics." Bill saluted. "Scout’s honor." "You were never a Scout." "Details." He adjusted his fake beard. "Go on, then. Make it convincing." Molly marched up to the front door and knocked. A frazzled woman in a reindeer sweater answered. "Oh! Are you the face painter?" Molly grinned. "The one and only. And I’ve got a special deal—free glitter tattoos for the first five kids!" The woman’s eyes lit up. "Glitter? The kids will love that!" She ushered Molly inside. Bill watched from the bushes as chaos erupted. Kids swarmed Molly, demanding sparkles and unicorns. He slipped through the back door, dodging a rogue balloon animal. The tree was a treasure trove—wrapped boxes spilling out from under its branches. He stuffed a sack full, then froze at the sound of footsteps. "Bill?" Molly’s voice hissed from the hallway. "You better be moving." He grabbed one last present—a suspiciously heavy one—and bolted. "I’m moving! But this one’s got to be a PlayStation." Molly grabbed his arm. "Less talking, more running." They sprinted out the back, the sack jingling with stolen joy. As they vanished into the night, a child’s voice floated after them. "Mom, where’d the face painter go?" Bill grinned. "Phase one: complete."