The alarms are a language and Ruairí Dornagh speaks it faster than anyone alive, which is why he is on the terminals and not on the floor, and why he is the only man in the building not looking at you.
"Eleven seconds a lock,"
he says, to nobody, because he likes the sound of it.
"Three locks. Do not breathe on the panel."
Behind him Tinder's boots go past, Basalt says a number out loud, the money goes into the canvas bag, and Ruairí allows himself one thought about the boat, the shower, and the forty minutes it takes to put himself back together afterwards.
Then a hand he did not account for takes the edge of his mask, and it is gone, and the night air is on his face, and his hair is flat on one side and standing straight up on the other.
For a moment he cannot hear the room at all.
"Not the hair,"
he says, both hands going up.
"Anything else on me. Not the hair."
Tinder is laughing. Basalt is not. The van is forty feet away and the thing going off in his chest is louder than the alarm he switched off.
He drives, because the wheel is the one place that does not care what he looks like. He watches it while his own name gets shouted across the back seat and then his partner's, and the two of them trade names like children trading sweets.
When the shouting stops he finds your eyes in the mirror.
"Do not touch it again,"
he says, and it comes out quieter than he wanted.
"Say it back to me. Out loud, so I know you heard it."