Molly and Bill huddled over a blueprint of the children's playcenter, their eyes scanning the labyrinthine layout of ball pits and bouncy castles. They sipped their lukewarm coffee, the bitter taste a perfect match for their scheming minds. "Alright, we've got a party of twenty kids, ages five to seven, and their parents, of course," Molly said, her red hair a fiery halo in the dimly lit diner. "Presents are supposed to be stashed in the 'Treasure Room' – aka a glorified gift closet." "Sounds like a cakewalk," Bill said, his voice a low rumble, a stark contrast to his lean, wiry frame. "Except for the whole 'it's a room full of screaming kids' thing." Molly shot him a withering look. "You're not exactly overflowing with festive cheer, are you?" "I'm just saying, have you ever tried to steal from a room full of sugar-high tiny humans? It's like trying to rob a horde of miniature, sugared-up locusts." Molly chuckled, a throaty sound. "That's why we're going in as 'party entertainers.' You'll wear the clown costume, I'll don the fairy wings. We blend in, grab the loot, and make our exit before anyone notices." Bill raised an eyebrow. "You know I'm allergic to face paint, right?" "A little talcum powder and you'll be fine," Molly said, waving a dismissive hand. "Besides, it's not like we haven't pulled off crazier stunts." Their eyes met, and for a moment, they shared a silent understanding, their partnership forged in the fires of countless heists and harebrained schemes. Molly's gaze snapped back to the blueprint. "Okay, so we make our entrance during the 'Pin the Tail on the Donkey' game. While the parents are distracted, we slip into the Treasure Room and swap out the presents with our decoy boxes." Bill's eyes narrowed. "What's the decoy payload this time?" "Oh, I figured some nice, worthless trinkets and a few 'Participation Trophies' to keep the kids occupied while we make our getaway." Molly's grin was wicked. "By the time they realize what's going on, we'll be sipping margaritas on a beach somewhere, surrounded by our ill-gotten gifts." Bill whistled low. "You're a genius, Moll. Pure, unadulterated evil genius." Molly beamed, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "That's why they call me the 'Gift Guru.'" As they packed up their plans and exited the diner, Bill turned to Molly with a serious expression. "You know, we really should start thinking about retirement. Maybe a nice, quiet life in the 'burbs." Molly's laughter was a joyful sound, echoing through the bright morning air. "You're not even convincing yourself, Bill. We're thieves, and thieves don't retire – they just get more creative."