Bill adjusted the fake mustache, peering over the manicured hedge with the intensity of a bomb disposal expert. The backyard below was a veritable minefield of balloons and screaming seven-year-olds, a fortress of sugar-fueled energy that would terrify even the most seasoned special forces. Molly checked her watch, then the crude schematics drawn on a grease-stained napkin. They had a precise three-minute window before the magician arrived to terminally bore the crowd. The humidity was oppressive, making the stolen mascot costume cling to Bill’s skin like a second, sweaty layer, a heavy price to pay for the perfect disguise. Molly scanned the crowd, identifying the security detail—a disinterested uncle leaning against a cooler—and marked the blind spot behind the bouncy castle. The scent of desperation mixed with cotton candy hung heavy in the air. The payload was massive, a glittering pile of gifts near the patio that promised high resale value on the black market. Bill gripped the oversized swag bag, knuckles white against the canvas. "The perimeter is secure." "What about the dog?" "I gave him a steak." "Nice work." "Let's grab the goods." Bill nodded, stomach rumbling with a mix of adrenaline and the smell of buttercream frosting. They prepared to vault the fence, silent shadows against the pastel chaos.