The blueprints were spread across the dashboard of the stolen minivan, illuminated by the intermittent flash of a neon sign outside. The target wasn’t a bank vault or a diamond exchange, but a fortress of foam and primary colors known as "Bouncy Kingdom." Molly sat in the driver's seat, wearing a tactical tuxedo that chafed in the humidity, adjusting the focus on her binoculars. Through the lens, the interior of the party palace looked like a riot in a candy factory, but to her, it was a grid of laser beams and sticky-fingered guards. The air conditioning in the van wheezed a dying rattle, unable to compete with the tension radiating from the front seats. "The perimeter is swarming," Molly noted, lowering the binoculars with a heavy sigh. "I count at least forty sugar-crazed operatives. And that’s not including the guy in the purple gorilla suit. He looks like he’s packing heat, or at least a very large banana." Bill sat in the passenger seat, meticulously organizing a pile of zip ties and a bag of marbles. He looked ridiculous in his oversized sunglasses and a t-shirt that read 'Game Over.' He glanced at the gorilla mascot with genuine terror. "I’m telling you, Molls, the marbles are a bad idea," Bill said, his voice trembling slightly. "We drop those on a hardwood floor near the cake, some kid is gonna slip and sue us before we even get to the present mountain. I can’t have a lawsuit on my record, I’m still paying off the damages from the Great Petting Zoo fiasco." "We need the chaos, Bill," Molly snapped, tracing a line on the greasy napkin that served as their floor plan. "The parents are the real security. They’re hovering like helicopters. If we don’t create a diversion—something big—the alarm will be raised before we can secure the merchandise. We’re talking unopened LEGO sets, pristine gaming consoles, and enough plush animals to open a black market zoo." "I still feel weird about it," Bill admitted, staring at the entrance where a stream of toddlers was arriving. "Stealing from a seven-year-old? It feels like a violation of the Geneva Convention or something. What’s the haul even worth?" "Retail? Maybe three grand," Molly calculated, her eyes cold and hard. "But on the black market? A pristine, unboxed 'Magical Princess Sparkle Pony' is worth its weight in gold. We’re not villains, Bill. We’re redistributing wealth from the undeserving young to the desperate old. Now, check the gear. Are the smoke bombs ready?" "I swapped the smoke bombs for confetti cannons," Bill mumbled, checking his backpack. "I thought it would fit the theme better. Less scary. Plus, I didn't want to trigger the asthma alarms." "Fine. Confetti works. It creates visual obstruction," Molly conceded, checking her watch. "We go in ten. Remember the signal. I drop the balloon animal, you trip the clown, and we grab the bags. We move fast, we move quiet, and nobody gets their juice boxes spilled." "If I get taken down by a dad in a knee brace, I’m blaming you," Bill grumbled, opening the van door. "I better get at least half of the Easy-Bake Oven." "Focus on the prize," Molly whispered, stepping out into the heat. "We hit the pile, we vacate the premises, and we retire to an island where the only screaming children are our own. Let’s go bag us a birthday."