Molly adjusted night vision goggles, squinting through suburban hedge at enemy fortress. Balloons bobbed like sentries along the picket fence, while a bounce castle loomed in the shadows—clearly the command center. She checked her watch: 1400 hours. Cake time approached. The distinct aroma of cheap pizza and desperation filled spring air. Bill emerged from the azaleas wearing a stolen clown nose and tactical kneepads. He handed her the blueprint—a crayon drawing of the living room with X marks spotting the coffee table. His face paint was smeared with anxiety. "Remember the cardinal rule here," he whispered. "Leave absolutely no living witnesses behind." "Just grab the Frozen scooter and let's please run," Molly sighed. They synchronized watches as a seven-year-old armed with frosting stumbled past. The piñata hung like a chandelier of temptation, but they weren't here for candy. They were here for the PS5 wrapped in dinosaur paper and inevitable tears of one spoiled birthday boy. Bill belly-crawled across the lawn, dodging sprinklers and discarded juice boxes. Molly followed, clutching her empty gift bag like a parachute. Through the sliding glass door, they spotted the target: thirty presents stacked precariously beside a sleeping golden retriever wearing a party hat. Time to go to work.