The rain drummed a relentless, jagged rhythm against the windshield of the unmarked sedan, blurring the vibrant neon streamers tied to the mailbox of 42 Maplewood Drive. Inside the car, the heavy air smelled of stale coffee, wet wool, and crushing desperation. Molly adjusted the collar of her trench coat, staring intently at the inflatable castle gyrating violently in the front yard. It was a monstrosity of pink and yellow plastic, housing the most terrifying demographic in the city: sugar-fueled first graders. "You absolutely sure about this, Molls? Stealing from a six-year-old’s birthday? That’s rock bottom, even for us. I think I saw my parole officer watching from across the street." Molly sighed deeply, turning to face her partner with a look of profound, almost maternal disappointment. She tapped a manicured fingernail against the glass. "It’s not rock bottom, Bill, it’s strategic supply chain management. Adults have ADT security and German Shepherds. Kids have cake and a collective attention span of three seconds. Look at the tactical intel. I saw three mountain bikes and a PS5 go through that front door an hour ago. That’s liquid gold on the black market." Bill shifted uncomfortably in the driver's seat, eyeing the group of toddlers screaming in high-pitched joy while running in manic circles on the wet lawn. He rubbed his temples. "They’re wearing conical hats, Bill. They aren't witnesses, they’re collateral. We wait for the pinata. That creates the necessary auditory chaos. When the candy hits the pavement, you move." She pulled a crumpled, juice-stained blueprint of the suburban ranch house from the glove compartment, smoothing it out aggressively on the dashboard. "The living room is the bullseye. Gifts are staged in the corner near the fireplace. You grab the heavy sacks, I create the diversion. We need to be in and out in four minutes." Bill looked at the blueprint, tracing the route with a calloused finger, then glanced back at the innocent, frosted bay window of the house where a mother was currently lighting candles. "What’s the play for the distraction? You gonna juggle? I didn't bring my red nose." Molly reached behind her seat and retrieved a terrifying rubber mask of a cartoon dinosaur and an industrial-sized fog machine. "I’m going in as the delayed entertainment. 'Magical Molly the Mysterious'. I’ll hit the fog machine, blind them with glitter bombs, and scream about Godzilla. While they panic, you scoop the presents like you’re mining for diamonds." He stared at the rubber mask, realizing with a heavy heart that this was truly his life now. The rain kept falling, washing away his dignity. "I can’t believe I’m robbing a Ninja Turtles theme party. What’s the split on the plushies?" "I keep the electronics, you get the stuffed animals. And get the cake, Bill. Do not forget the cake. That carrot cake is worth fifty bucks alone."