A cat in a worn trench coat and fedora, tail curled like a question mark, slides a forged document under a closed door. Its pupils are narrow slits, ears twitching toward the hallway. One paw holds a pocket watch set five minutes fast; the other grips a stolen key ring. The setting is a dimly lit apartment corridor, shadows stretching from a flickering bulb. The cat’s whiskers are bent, one slightly longer than the others, as if it has been listening at vents. Its expression is not guilt but calculation, the kind that knows exactly how long before the alarm sounds. Behind it, a trail of muddy paw prints leads to a fire escape, already vanishing into the night.