The fluorescent lights of the dingy backroom cast a sallow glow on the scattered maps and blueprints. Molly traced her finger along the diagram of the suburban house, her nail clicking against the paper with each calculated movement. Bill leaned back in a rickety folding chair, his leather jacket creaking. "So we're really doing this? A kids' birthday party heist?" "Not just any party," Molly muttered, her eyes narrowing. "This is the Thompson kid's seventh birthday. Rich parents, catered event, multiple gift tables." Bill chuckled, a low rumble. "Who steals from a children's birthday party?" "Professionals," she retorted, spreading out photographs of the backyard layout. "Minimum security, maximum payout. Parents will be distracted, kids running everywhere, perfect chaos." "You're a special kind of criminal, you know that?" Bill shook his head. "Most people rob banks or jewelry stores." Molly's fingers moved across the blueprint, marking potential entry and exit points. "Amateurs think about big scores. Professionals understand opportunity." "The gift tables will be near the cake," Bill observed, tracing a potential route. "Probably in the sunroom off the kitchen." "Exactly. High-end electronics, collector's items, designer toys. These aren't cheap plastic trinkets. We're talking limited edition stuff that collectors will pay serious cash for." Bill raised an eyebrow. "And the moral issue?" "Moral?" Molly snorted. "These are kids whose parents buy them everything. They won't even notice." The blueprints showed a meticulously planned approach. Catering staff entrance, temporary blind spots in the security cameras, a small window of opportunity between cake cutting and present opening. "We'll need disguises," Bill said. "Something that blends." Molly pulled out two outfits: a catering staff uniform and a party photographer's vest. "Already handled. We look like we belong, we walk right in." The plan was audacious, ridiculous, and just precise enough to potentially work. A children's birthday party heist—something so absurd that no one would expect it. "How much are we looking at?" Bill asked, leaning closer. "Conservative estimate? Fifteen grand. Optimistic? Maybe twenty-five, depending on what collector items are in those wrapped packages." Bill whistled. "All from a seven-year-old's birthday party." "The best scores are always where nobody's looking," Molly said, rolling up the blueprints. "Ready to become the most unconventional thieves in the city?" A grin spread across Bill's face. "Let's go crash a kid's birthday party." Outside, the evening settled into a quiet suburban stillness, completely unaware of the calculated chaos about to unfold.