Molly traced the blueprint of the suburban party venue with her fingertip, her eyes narrowing with calculated precision. The balloon-festooned community center looked deceptively cheerful, but she saw it for what it was: a treasure trove of wrapped gifts just waiting to be liberated. Bill leaned back in the creaky kitchen chair, rotating a lockpick between his fingers. The room smelled of stale coffee and desperation, their makeshift planning headquarters cluttered with surveillance photos and discarded energy drink cans. "Those birthday presents are basically calling my name," Molly muttered. Bill chuckled. "Calling our names. Equal split, remember?" She rolled her eyes. The party was scheduled for Saturday afternoon, a children's birthday bash guaranteed to have expensive electronics, collector's items, and potentially some high-end jewelry gifted by overzealous grandparents. Their intel suggested at least thirty wrapped packages would be present. Molly spread the floor plan, highlighting potential entry and exit points. The ventilation system offered a promising route, though it would require some precise maneuvering. Bill studied the diagram, his fingers drumming a staccato rhythm of anticipation. "We'll need the inflatable dinosaur costume," he said with a wicked grin.