Molly squinted at the glitter-caked invitation, flicking a speck of pink dust from her leather jacket. The van smelled like stale fries and desperation. "You do realize this says 'Princess Petunia's Enchanted Garden Extravaganza,' right? We're robbing a five-year-old." Bill adjusted his fake mustache in the rearview mirror of the stolen van, looking pleased with himself despite the sweat gathering on his forehead. "Technically, we're robbing thirty-seven five-year-olds. And one hedge fund manager who bought his daughter a pony wrapped in bitcoin. She's got three PlayStation 5s, Molly. Three. Plus a life-sized animatronic dinosaur." "It's a bouncy castle venue, Bill. With a face-painting station." "Exactly! Distraction infrastructure. We enter as entertainment, blend with the chaos, snag the gift table, vanish before Happy Birthday." Molly lowered her sunglasses, staring at him over the rims. "What do you mean 'we'? I'm not wearing a clown nose. Last time I wore rubber shoes, I got a fungal infection that required medical intervention." "Better. You're Princess Petunia's evil twin, Duchess Dread. I made you a sash. Velvet slippers, not rubber. Very classy." "You want me to impersonate a fictional royal at a party where parents memorized the guest list?" Bill waved his hand dismissively, nearly knocking over his coffee. "No, I hired us through a gig app. Very official. I told them you're from the agency. The evil twin agency." "That's not a thing." "It is now. I printed business cards." She rubbed her temples, feeling a headache bloom behind her eyes as she contemplated the moral implications. "What about the presents?" "Custom wagon. Looks like a caterer's cart, actually a high-speed extraction vehicle. Modified with cup holders." "For the juice boxes?" "For our nerves, Molly. We're professionals." "Professionals don't face security threats like 'nap time' and 'pin the tail on the donkey.' Or trigger-happy dads with camera phones and pepper spray." Bill unfolded a blueprint scrawled on the back of a coloring book page, pointing at a crayon drawing of a garden. "Gift table sits beside the face-painting station. Classic blind spot. Parents photograph kids as tigers while we load tablets and LEGO sets into the wagon." "You scoped this out?" "Attended the rehearsal. Brought my niece. Very disappointing cheese stick-to-carrot ratio in the goodie bags. Cheap stuff." Molly sighed, lifting a sequined villain cape from the pile of costumes on his dashboard. The fabric smelled like cotton candy and regret. "If we get caught, I'm blaming you entirely. I'll claim you kidnapped me." "Just yell 'surprise audit' and start checking gift receipts. No one questions bureaucracy at a children's party. They'll assume we're from the IRS or the clown union." "Exit strategy?" "Balloon drop at three PM. Visual cover. We roll out while they scream about sugar rushes and the magician starts his dove routine." She checked her watch, glancing at the cracked dashboard clock, then looked back at him with raised eyebrows. "You're disturbingly prepared for this." "I used to plan bank vaults in Luxembourg, Molly. This is easier. Less lasers, more glitter. Same principle: identify the mark, exploit the weakness, don't step on any small humans." "You brought a flare gun?" "For emergencies." She shook out the cape, watching sequins scatter across the torn upholstery of his passenger seat and stick to an old gum wrapper. "Fine. But I'm keeping the tiara. And if I see a single balloon animal near my face, I'm shooting it with your flare gun." "Only if you earn it, Duchess."