Angelez groped along the wall of the dark basement, her fingers skimming the thick layer of grime for a barely-there fissure, a crack. A door, she supposed, although it would be generous to call it such -- it was more of a panel, small and narrow, opening into a passageway just wide enough for a relatively slim eighteen-year-old to slip through. Since Angelez happened to be a relatively slim eighteen-year-old, the passage had accommodated her, if grudgingly, on her way in, and would hopefully escort her out if she located its entrance.
Footsteps sounded above her, followed by the loud clanking-rolling sound of a wheeled cart. Kitchen staff, most likely, carrying dishes from the massive dining room on the ground floor. The owner of the building Angelez was currently in, a Mr. Henry Stenson (or so she had heard), was hosting some sort of business event tonight, which didn't matter in the least to Angelez except that it had created the perfect opportunity for her to break into his office and steal things. Important things.
The first was a lock. The second, its key.
Angelez's fingernail finally lodged itself into a fissure in the wall. Carefully, ever so carefully, she followed the rift down, feeling for the hidden latch through its middle and flicking it aside. With considerable effort, she pried the panel open, moving it slowly to avoid the inevitable creaking of rusty hinges. Someone really ought to oil the thing once in a while. Then again, there were probably about four people who knew it existed.
Angelez ran a hand over the hidden pocket of her coat, checking that her stolen goods were secure. A lock and a key, both itching for a door. In time, she told them. In time.
She slunk into the passageway, lifting its door closed behind her.