The inflatable castle hissed with a rhythmic, mechanical heartbeat that Bill found deeply offensive to his professional sensibilities. He adjusted his oversized rainbow wig, which was currently shedding synthetic fibers into his eyes. Molly checked her tactical stopwatch—a high-end piece of equipment that looked ridiculous next to her sequined tutu and butterfly wings. Keep the perimeter clear of any toddlers with sticky hands, Bill whispered, his voice muffled by a prosthetic red foam nose. I’m more worried about the juice box situation near the gift table, Molly replied as she smeared glitter paste over her cheekbones for camouflage. She pointed toward the sun-drenched patio where a mountain of brightly wrapped boxes sat unguarded, smelling faintly of sugar and privilege. The objective was clear: sixty-four units of high-grade plastic toys, remote-controlled drones, and at least one limited-edition chemistry set. Bill pulled a sturdy burlap sack from underneath his oversized polka-dot trousers. He signaled toward the buffet, noting that the sugar-crashed six-year-olds were finally entering their afternoon lethargy phase. Phase two is go, he murmured. Molly nodded, gripped her wand tight, and prepared to vanish into the sea of frantic balloons and screaming infants.