Molly crouched behind a plastic hedge shaped like a dinosaur, her black ski mask already slipping over one ear. “You realize we’re robbing a Chuck E. Cheese birthday party, right? There’s gonna be glitter. So. Much. Glitter.” Bill adjusted his balaclava, tugging it down to cover his nose. “Glitter’s good. It distracts. Besides, kids are the ultimate mark. They cry, but they don’t chase. Rule one of child-based crime.” “They also scream. Like tiny banshees. What’s the plan? Distract them with a puppet show while I stuff Nerf guns into a duffel bag?” “Better. I’m going in as a birthday entertainer.” Molly blinked. “You? Entertainer? You can’t even do a convincing chicken impression.” “I’m offended. I did a flawless rooster at the last heist. Woke up three dogs and a guy named Earl.” “That was a sneeze.” “Mood killed. Look, I’ve got the costume. Clown outfit, foam banana, the whole bit. I’ll lead them in a conga line into the ball pit. You grab the loot.” “Ball pit? Bill, that’s a biohazard. I once saw a toddler eat a rubber duck in one.” “And I once stole a diamond from a museum guard’s front pocket while doing the macarena. Priorities, Molly.” Molly peeked around the dinosaur hedge. Inside, a neon-colored room pulsed with strobe lights and the sound of a synthesized polka cover of *Enter Sandman*. “That’s… deeply concerning. Who allows this?” “Desperate parents. Also, cake is distraction-level five. We time it for right after dessert. Sugar crash in ten, present grab in thirty.” “What about the robot band?” “There’s always a robot band.” “No, I mean—those things have cameras in their eyes. They’re probably recording everything.” Bill waved a hand. “Robots don’t talk. They’re in management’s pocket. Trust me.” “Last time you said ‘trust me,’ we ended up fleeing a bingo hall in a Zamboni.” “That was a tactical relocation.” “A Zamboni, Bill!” “It was fun!” Molly sighed, pulling a grappling hook from her backpack. “Fine. But if I get glitter in my hair, I’m blaming you. And if I have to explain to a five-year-old why his Power Rangers backpack is gone, I’m kicking you in the shins.” “Negotiation tactic: tell him it’s on a superhero mission.” “And if he starts crying?” “Give him a lollipop from the loot pile. Emotional hush money.” “You’ve thought about this.” “Crime is psychology, Molly. You rob the presents, I’ll manage the morale. You distract with stealth, I’ll disarm with charm.” “I still think we should’ve gone for the jewelry store.” “And miss out on mini skateboards, slime jars, and that giant unicorn piñata full of candy? That piñata’s worth at least three emotional support goats.” “Goats?” “Inflateable. But still valuable on the underground party circuit.” Molly squinted through the window. “There’s a bouncy castle.” “Even better. Kids go in, they don’t come out. It’s nature’s time sink.” “And the parents?” “Passed out in the ‘Quiet Zone’ with bottomless soda refills. We’ll be long gone before anyone notices the absence of 37 gift bags and a helium tank.” “The helium tank?” “For the getaway balloons. I had a vision.” “You’re ridiculous.” “And yet, you keep coming back.” “Only because you once stole a solid gold toilet seat and framed it as ‘art.’” “Museum paid ten grand! And it was tacky!” Molly zipped up her stealth pack. “Fine. But if a toddler in footed pajamas catches us, I’m telling him you’re the one who took his LEGO set.” “Fair. But only if I get to say you were the clown.”