The warehouse smelled like old rope, motor oil, and last week’s takeout — the usual scent of professionalism, according to Vinnie. A single bulb hung from a cord, swaying gently as the crew gathered around the plywood table where blueprints of Ferracini Jewelers were spread out and held down by a half-eaten cannoli.

“Alright, boys,” said Vinnie, tapping the blueprint with a gloved finger. “We go in through the back alley, avoid the motion sensors, bypass the lockdown glass, nab the ice, and get out before the night security finishes his meatball sub. Easy.”

The crew nodded in solemn agreement.

Then Vinnie clapped his hands. “Uniform time.”

Four men reached into duffel bags and pulled out pristine black-and-white striped shirts, black beanies, and tiny black eye masks that looked more decorative than functional. They slipped the shirts on with the reverence of priests donning vestments.

Only Joey — new, wide-eyed, and still smelling faintly of college textbooks — hesitated.

“Uh… boss?”

Vinnie froze mid-adjusting his beanie. “…Yeah, Joey?”

Joey held up the striped shirt like it was radioactive. “Why are we wearin’ this? I mean, I’m new, so maybe I’m missin’ somethin’, but… ain’t this the most recognizable burglar outfit in the entire history of burglars?”

Silence.

Even the swaying bulb seemed to pause.

Marty blinked at him. “Recognizable? Kid, what are you, allergic to heritage?”

“It’s tradition,” Sal added, indignant, tugging his mask over his nose. “My nonna knit my first burglar stripes when I was six. Said I looked ‘distinguished.’”

Vinnie stepped forward, hands on hips. “Listen, Joey. The stripes ain’t just clothes. They’re a statement. A mark of the profession. The cameras expect it.”

Joey sputtered. “The… cameras expect it?!”

“Yeah,” Marty said. “Look, you show up in normal clothes, the security guys get suspicious. They’re watchin’ the monitors thinkin’, ‘Hey, where’s the stripes? Where’s the classic look? Somethin’ ain’t right here.’ Next thing you know, alarms everywhere.”

Sal chimed in, nodding hard. “Plus, how are the cartoon sketch artists supposed to draw us accurately? You want some poor artist guessin’ what you wore? That’s disrespectful.”

Joey opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “But wouldn’t… wouldn’t being recognizable be the opposite of what we want?”

The three veterans stared at him like he’d slapped the cannoli.

Vinnie exhaled through his nose — the kind of exhale that said he was summoning patience from the depths of his criminal soul. “Kid. Joey. Listen. We’re burglars. We burgle. And burglars wear stripes. This is the natural order of things.”

Marty leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “You start questionin’ the outfit, next thing you know you’re questionin’ the sack with the dollar sign on it. And then what are we, Joey? Huh? Animals?”

Joey looked down at the bag he’d been issued. A perfect burlap sack with a bright green dollar sign stitched on the side. “Seriously? We actually use this?”

“It’s ergonomic,” Sal said proudly. “Fits the jewels perfect.”

Vinnie clapped Joey on the shoulder. “Look. Put on the stripes, kid. You’ll feel the professionalism set in. It’s like a second skin.”

Joey muttered something under his breath but reluctantly pulled the shirt on. The stripes clung to him with destiny.

The crew stepped back, admiring him.

Marty sniffed. “Aw, look at that. He’s one of us.”

Sal wiped a fake tear from his eye. “A real burglar boy.”

Vinnie checked his watch. “Alright. Masks on, sacks ready. Let’s go make history.”

They marched toward the exit with the proud, unified swagger of men who believed — down to their bones — that the world expected burglars to look exactly like this.

Joey followed, tugging at the collar of his absurd new uniform, whispering to himself, “I went to college for this…”