Molly adjusted her black cat ears, smooth over the wisps of pink hair escaping from her clips. She stood at the back of the crowded party, a riot of balloons and streamers swishing behind her like a chorus of angry ghosts. Bill, snuggled into a flour-dusted trench coat, eyed the sea of sugar-fueled chaos. "Okay, so we go in through the kitchen, yeah?" Bill kept his voice under a normal conversational tone, but Molly detected a rise in pitch, her own excitement spiking. "That's the plan," she replied, checking the party schedule in a hastily borrowed planner. The cake-cutting ceremony was still another hour away, giving them just enough time to grab what they needed. "Right. And what, exactly, do you want to nick?" Bill's hand absently drummed a rhythm on his glove-covered thigh. "All the presents, obviously," Molly said with a grin. "The glittering, colorful chaos of it – we'll make a killing." Bill raised an eyebrow, a glint in his eye. "I like it. We'll have, like, a rainbow-colored hoard of stolen tchotchkes." Molly chuckled and began to make her way through the crowded room, slinking between sugar-high toddlers and bewildered parents. Bill followed, a shadow in his wake. "Wait, Molly, hold up," he whispered, snagging her arm from the ribbon that tied her ponytail. "We can't just barge in there. Think of the potential witnesses—it's got all the makings for a real mess." Molly pouted playfully. "Just a couple of frazzled parents? We can handle that. You always say we should take on the high-risk jobs." "Says who, your therapist?" Bill raised both eyebrows, and Molly shot him a shrewd look. She winked. "Just take point, and you can wriggle out any taut situation with your smooth-sleuth skills." "I'll see what I can do," Bill muttered, handing her a fake mustache from his trench coat pocket. Molly took it, inspecting the sticky latex before applying it, her smile turning wicked. "Time to become 'Dad-ager'." She slipped into a nearby adult's dress, tossing aside her own clothes without a care – after all, the last time she'd dressed up her partner in a matching set of miniature sombreros was the best night of her life. "Alright, Dad-ager's all set. You good?" Bill didn't seem to hear Molly, too engrossed in plotting his dramatic exit via the cookie buffet line. While Bill kept up the facade of partygoer innocence, Molly picked the lock on the kitchen door with ease, slipping into the heart of the chaos. "Oh, joy," she said, her back against the kitchen counter, surveying the glittering array of wrapped boxes and ribbons. "A veritable treasure trove of sparkly presents. Time for us to reap the spoils."