The Brass Ring

Click. I dropped low from the window ledge, talons landing firm on the thick corridor runner. Further down the alcove wall, a heavy metal service hatch sat flush with the baseboard. Scent of dry copper and cool pipework leaked from the seam. Near the bottom corner lay a thick discarded brass washer, dull with age. I crept forward in measured paces, tail stiffening straight behind me for counterweight. Snout lowered. One hard tap sent the ring skittering across the smooth metal riser. It pinged sharply, tilted, and wedged upright right inside the door flap gap. Solid brace established.