"You’re telling me we’re robbing a five-year-old?" Bill asked, adjusting his ski mask in the rearview mirror. "Six-year-old, actually. And it’s not just any six-year-old—it’s Brayden Worthington III. His parents bought him a solid gold rocking horse," Molly said, checking her lock picks. "Still feels like punching down." "It’s punching laterally. The kid’s net worth exceeds ours combined. Plus, he bites. I’ve seen the surveillance footage. He’s a biter." Bill sighed. "What’s the security situation?" "Clowns, mostly. One does magic, poorly. And a bounce house serving as the vault. It’s inflatable fortress technology. Very sophisticated." "Standard birthday protocol?" "Piñata at three, cake at four, present grab at five. We go in during the magic show distraction. That’s when the parents zone out completely, checking their phones for stock prices." "What about the chaperones?" "One’s doing balloon animals, the other’s face-down in the punch bowl. We’ll blend in as caterers. I’ve got the aprons with the ruffles." "With ski masks?" "We’re avant-garde caterers. Very exclusive. Michelin stars require mystery and face coverings. It’s art." Bill paused. "Do we at least leave the goodie bags?" "Bill, we’re thieves, not monsters. We take the gold horse, the gaming consoles, and maybe that robot dog, but the stickers and juice boxes stay. Those are sacrosanct. The juice boxes have straws, Bill. Straws." "Noble." "Professional standards, Bill. We have professional standards. I’m not spending Christmas in jail because I stole a juice box from a toddler. That’s bad karma."