Molly leaned in close to Bill, who was fidgeting with a lockpicks set that looked more colorful than a box of crayons—bright reds and blues stacked in an enticing array. The duo perched on their haunches beneath the veil of night, eyes squinting at the illuminated festivity before them. "Easy, Tiger," Molly whispered, the alphabet of locksmithing dancing untamed on her lips. "This pin here is a stubborn one; requires the gentlest of coaxes." Bill nodded, his fingers trembling with a blend of anticipation and incompetence. A siren of candy floss and vibrant balloons declared the scene a celebration of youth. They were nothing more than wraiths in this carnival of laughter and Jenny Craig commercials. "We'll stick to the shadows," Molly continued, her voice a conspiracy wrapped in velvet, "Like Casper with a modicum of talent. The presents are in the living room, oblivious to their impending commandeered fate." "So, we're the Ghost of Gift-Rotation Past, then?" Bill chuckled, his attempt at levity causing a ripple in the aquatic darkness. Ignoring his pun, Molly straightened, their eyes meeting in the pale light of their accessory bag. The moment of truth had arrived. Time seemed to warp as Molly's slender fingers ferried over the lock. The click was a symphony of success, the door an inch-wide smile of welcome. "Run for it, merry bandit!" Molly exclaimed, her eyes alight with the thrill of the heist. And with that, they vanished into the belly of the celebration, unseen underbellies amidst a sea of party hats.