Molly traced a grubby finger over a crayon drawing of a purple unicorn. The paper, pinned to a corkboard already cluttered with photos and Post-it notes, crinkled under her touch. "Ten years old. Can you imagine the haul?" Across the table, Bill snorted, fiddling with a miniature grappling hook, his pride and joy. "Molly, we've gone over this. We're stealing art, jewels, maybe the occasional priceless artifact. Not a ten-year-old’s birthday loot." "But this isn't just any ten-year-old, Bill. This is Penelope Worthington the Third. You know, Worthington department stores? Her parents probably buy her ponies." "Ponies you can't fence, mind you." "But presents, Bill, presents! Think of the sheer volume. Designer clothes, the latest tech gadgets..." Molly's eyes gleamed with avarice. Bill sighed, knowing he was fighting a losing battle. "Molly, have you ever even seen a kid's birthday party? It's a chaotic mess of screaming, sugar-fueled maniacs high on cake and cheap plastic toys." "Excuses, excuses. Fine, you get the air vents. I'll hit the present table." Molly grinned, already mapping out her route. "That's not even the point! How do you plan on sneaking out with a mountain of gifts? We'll look like we're robbing Santa's workshop." "Subtlety, darling, is overrated. We'll create a diversion. A glitter bomb, perhaps?" She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "A glitter bomb?" Bill's voice cracked. He massaged his temples. "Please tell me you're joking." Molly simply smiled, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Where’s your sense of adventure, Bill? Besides, imagine the news headlines: "Master thieves strike fear into the heart of... a children's birthday party?" "See, this is what I'm talking about! That's not fear, Molly, that's just sad." Molly leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Think of it this way: stealing from the obscenely wealthy to fund our lavish lifestyle? Morally ambiguous. Stealing from a bunch of spoiled brats who'll probably just get more stuff anyway? Practically a public service." Bill groaned, rubbing his forehead. "You know what? Just promise me no glitter bombs. Or real bombs. And definitely no actual ponies." Molly chuckled, already sketching what looked suspiciously like a unicorn on her napkin. "Fine, fine. But no promises about the piñata."