Molly adjusted the focus on her binoculars, the plastic creaking in the silence of the rented van. Outside, the suburban landscape of Oakhaven was deceptively peaceful, a quiet cul-de-sac disrupted only by the high-pitched shrieks of joy emanating from number 42. To the untrained eye, it was a simple sixth birthday party. To Molly, it was a fortress of solitude she intended to breach, a high-stakes environment where the stakes were plastic and the security was parental. "Check the perimeter, Bill. We’ve got bouncy castle sentries at the south wall and a clown near the gazebo," Molly whispered, lowering the binoculars to reveal a face coated in determination. "It’s a hard target." Bill shifted in the driver’s seat, his large frame cramping as he tried to peer through the tinted window. He looked less like a master thief and more like a confused parade participant in his black tactical turtleneck. The van smelled faintly of stale fries and anxiety, a potent cocktail for any criminal enterprise. "I don't know, Moll. They look harmless. One of them just dropped a juice box," Bill said, squinting through the glass. Molly snapped her head toward him, her eyes narrowing into slits of professional outrage. She pulled a crumpled blueprint from the glovebox—a stolen coloring book page—and tapped it furiously against the steering wheel. "Harmless? That juice box is a tactical hazard. That’s sticky residue waiting to compromise our escape route," she scolded. "The loot is stacked beneath the banner. High-value targets include a Nintendo Switch and a bespoke dollhouse. We ditch the socks. No one steals socks." Bill sighed, the sound whistling through his teeth. He stared out at the manicured lawn, watching a small child in a princess dress tackle another child near the petting zoo. It lacked the elegance of a museum heist, the thrill of the casino vault. It mostly just felt sticky. "It’s just... they’re kids, Molly. We’re stealing from children," Bill muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Isn't there a code? Like, we don’t steal from nuns or kids?" Molly ignored the moral quandary, focusing instead on the logistics of the grab. She marked an 'X' on the coloring book with a red crayon, her tongue sticking out in concentration. The plan was simple: exploit the chaos of the cake cutting, grab the goods, and vanish before the sugar crash hit the guests. "Desperate times, Bill. We’re teaching them a valuable lesson about the fragility of material possessions," Molly reasoned, looking for the blind spot in the hedge. "The entry point is the side gate. The parents are too distracted by the sangria to notice a tactical insertion." "And if the clown spots us?" Bill asked, pointing a trembling finger at the entertainer. "He looks twitchy." "Clowns are non-combatants. Avoid eye contact. If he offers you a flower, do not accept it," Molly advised, grabbing a duffel bag from the back. "It squirts water. Water ruins the electronics." Bill nodded slowly, though he didn't look convinced. He reached into the back seat and pulled out a terrifying, grinning mask that smelled of old cheese. "I look like a nightmare factory in this thing," Bill grumbled. "Good. Fear paralyzes the enemy," Molly said, checking her watch. "Move out. And Bill? Don't step on the cake. Forensics hate cake crumbs."