Molly's black lipsticked grin widened as she hunched over the makeshift blueprint of the suburban house. "The backdoor's a cinch, Bill. Once we're in, it's a straight shot to the living room." Bill, sprawled on the worn couch with a crumpled bag of chips between his feet, raised an eyebrow. "And the timing? Were you planning on walking out during the piñata smash?" Molly snickered. "No, no – we'll blend right in. A little green face paint, a 'Happy Birthday!' chant, and we'll be unrecognizable." She gestured to the drawing. "We'll swap out presents while Elmo torches the pinata, and nopone the wiser." Bill shoved a handful of chips into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "This is insane." His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "What's the payout on this one?" Molly's eyes gleamed. "Ipads, video games, laptops … The parents are footing the bill." Bill whistled softly, wiping his hands on his T-shirt. "The dumb bastards." The sun dipped behind the curtains, casting long shadows in the cramped apartment. Molly's gaze lingered on the plan, tracing various escape routes until she noticed a misguided streak of hope. "Hey, maybe they'll have cake." Bill snorted. "You know what they say, Molly – a party ain't right without cake." He shot her a wink, a glint of mischievous intent twinkling in his eyes. With renewed determination, Molly clapped her hands together. "Right! Time to bring the house down." She stood, adjusting the wig on her mannequin head, its lifeless stare mocking her attempts to replicate the host mother's bouffant. Beyond the window, party cars crammed the driveway, their bright streamers reminiscent of a siren's call. Molly and Bill exchanged a glance – the moment of truth loomed, the gravity of their scheme heavy in the room, like a ticking clock. The first tip-from-the-piñata-crack echoed through the apartment, a sound much like the clinking of ice in a highball glass. Molly's eyes met Bill's, a nod silent and understood. "Bring it, kids," she murmured, checking her Glock's ammunition for the umpteenth time. Bill wisely kept his weapons holstered under his hoodie – after all, cake would be hard to enjoy with a holster marking your place at the dessert table. "Ready?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Molly's grin bloomed anew. "Born ready." Before the final cacophony of screams and laughter, before the stampede of children seeking candy and chaos, Molly and Bill's hearts raced in tandem, marking the permutations of an extraordinary heist – a taste of sweetness, and a flavor of justice – sweet revenge, swift, mild and profane.