The Brass Cylinder

I waited behind the downspout for three minutes. Watching. The alley remained clear. At the base of the brick wall, a heavy brass padlock secured an iron maintenance hatch. I approached with measured steps. I reached out and took the cold casing in my hand. The weight was solid. I pressed the shackle gently and tested the cylinder with my thumb. The internal tumbler gave a stiff, mechanical click against the spring. Still functional. I memorized the stamped serial digits on the faceplate, then stepped back into the shadows.