The flickering neon sign of "Sparky's Souvenir Emporium" cast a sickly green glow on Molly's meticulously organized blueprints. Bill, wearing a suspiciously clean janitor's uniform, nudged a stray glitter bomb with his boot. “This is a tactical nightmare, Mol. Look at this place." "It's not a tactical nightmare, Bill, it's a tactical treasure trove. Picture it: tiny humans, sugar-fueled chaos, and unattended gift piles. Like a buffet for the morally bankrupt.” Molly tapped a red circle on the drawing. "The prize is here. Quadrant Beta-Seven. The unicorn piñata. Rumor has it, that particular unicorn is stuffed with the latest gaming consoles. This is our grand slam, Bill." "Grand slam? It’s a birthday party. For a seven-year-old. The security is going to be, like, a slightly bewildered aunt with a can of hairspray." Bill ran a hand over his thinning hair. "What if there's a dog? A small, yappy dog that’ll alert the entire cul-de-sac to our nefarious deeds?" "Bill, darling, you worry too much. The dog is a minor variable. We'll bribe it with a strategic piece of artisanal cheese. And the aunt? A well-placed distraction. Maybe I’ll ‘accidentally’ spill punch all over her prize-winning pot roast. A little culinary calamity never hurt anyone." Molly’s eyes gleamed. "Spill punch on a pot roast? That's your grand distraction? Molly, you're a literary genius with a surprisingly limited repertoire of social sabotage." Bill sighed. "What about the parents? They’re not just going to be standing around admiring the balloon animals all day." "Ah, the parents. They’ll be engrossed in their own little dramas. One will be attempting to assemble flat-pack furniture in the garden, another will be desperately trying to reconnect to the Wi-Fi. And the birthday boy? He'll be too busy with his cake to notice his precious loot vanishing." Molly traced a route on the blueprint with a pencil. "Our entry point is the service gate, disguised as… well, you disguised as a janitor. Easy in, easy out. We’ll be in and out before the 'Happy Birthday' song even finishes." "So the plan is: I pretend to be a cleaner, you pretend to be a clumsy guest, and we pilfer presents while a horde of hyperactive children are distracted by sugar and questionable balloon animals?" Bill scrubbed a spot on his borrowed trousers. "It’s… audacious." "It’s brilliant, Bill. Think of the headlines! 'Pastry Pirates Plunder Party Presents!' 'Molly and Bill: The Uninvited Gift-Givers!'" Molly grinned. "And the profit margin on a lightly used Xbox is significantly higher than on a stolen Fabergé egg, I’ll have you know." "But what if the birthday boy has a discerning eye? What if he notices his new robot vacuum cleaner is missing before we’re halfway down the street?" Bill’s voice was a low grumble. "He won’t. He’ll be too busy trying to get his new drone to fly. And if he does, we'll just tell him it's a surprise pre-birthday gift from his imaginary friend, Bartholomew. Bartholomew the Bestower of Blown-Away Bargains. We’ll stick to him." Molly winked. "Besides, if all else fails, we’ve got the glitter bomb. A little festive chaos goes a long way."