Bill adjusted the neon clown wig, sending a toxic cloud of glitter into the rusty gutter serving as their ventilation point. This was supposed to be a stealth operation, yet he looked like a disco ball had exploded in a glue factory. Molly adjusted her night-vision goggles, glaring intently at the schematic of the suburban backyard fortress where feral toddlers ran wild on pure sugar. She ignored him, focusing intently on the prize. The birthday cake was merely a sugary distraction; the real loot sat in the corner, wrapped in shiny, expensive paper. It was a mountain of unopened toys, a veritable goldmine of plastic joy waiting to be pilfered. Bill tugged at his polyester pants nervously while hiding behind a garden gnome. The bounce house loomed in the distance like a colorful, rubber castle of doom. Molly drew her tactical grappling hook, aiming for the balcony where the parents were drinking expensive wine. Security was surprisingly lax, but the guilt was heavy. They were about to become the most hated people in the neighborhood. One wrong step meant social suicide. "The wig is itching like crazy." "I think a kid is looking over here." "We must move fast right now."