All images by Lynn Wen Wen for RICE Media
In a small, repurposed room somewhere in Sim Lim Tower, lockpicking instructor YC projects the lockpicking code of ethics on a screen.
Only pick locks that belong to you, or given explicit permission by its owner to pick
Don’t pick locks that are in use as lock picking can damage or disable a lock
Wait, what? Then what am I even doing here, if I can’t use these skills to break into places I’m not supposed to be? My heist career, dead before the first job.
I scan the room for a crew and come up short. Nobody here looks like they’re plotting the next big score, and nobody looks remotely like the type to lean back and say, “You sonovabitch, I’m in”.
At the table next to mine, a couple is on a date. Bold. My desk buddy, Wan Zhen, is just a “regular office admin guy,” he says.
“At the end of 10 minutes, you should all be able to open the cutaway lock,” YC announces.
A cutaway padlock exposes the inner chamber for beginner lockpickers to see the mechanisms inside—an intricate mosaic of pins and springs. Meanwhile, I’ve been fiddling with mine for four straight minutes, sweating in my jacket and acutely aware that it would look pretty bad if I was humbled by the first challenge.
You sonovabitch, I’m locking in.
Locking in for Lockpicking
I found LockSport SG the way most people discover niche obsessions: falling down a TikTok rabbit hole at 1 AM.
The main instructor, YC, is a 41-year-old public healthcare doctor, which explains the limited workshop slots. Sessions are always capped at 16 people, and spots vanish within a day of release. Talk about gatekeeping.
Zach Tan, 42, started LockSport SG in 2016. A decade on, it’s still the only established lockpicking community in Singapore. Its online presence is elusive, and it only shows up in your feed if the algorithm decides you’re into strange subcultures. Like a RICE writer, for instance.
Finding the venue is a puzzle in itself. In the liminal spaces of Sim Lim Tower’s upper floors, the only sign I’m in the right place is a hand-scribbled A4-sized sign pasted on the wall.
I’m the first to arrive and instinctively cop a seat at the back of the class. Over the years, my appetite for lessons has waned—a side effect of being a screen-fried Gen Z doomscroller.
YC starts the session by saying we have to throw away what we think we know about lockpicking. In the movies, spies simply shove a bent hairpin into a keyhole, jiggle it around, and—click—the door swings open.
As I’m about to learn, the reality is less aura farming and more like adopting a severe prawn posture, hunching over comically small metal cylinders.
My fingers, which have only ever been asked to type, start to cramp. My ego takes serious damage soon after. The small mercy: The room is mostly filled with grown adults, and they, too, are losing to the beginner-friendly cutaway padlock.
Among them, I notice a boy in a neon orange hoodie nonchalantly picking at it. 11-year-old Vaughn is completely locked in on his lock. His fingers and posture are relaxed. I ask his mother, 43-year-old Hazel, what brought them here.
“He’s been fascinated by mechanisms since birth,” she explains.
“At 18 months, we got him an activity board with simple latches and locks. He would sit there with that board for two hours straight.”
Hazel admits that her son is wired differently. “When his hands are on a lock, he will not know what’s going on around him anymore. He loses track of time.”
I return to my own cutaway lock and let go of the death-grip I had. Click click. I don’t know how long I work on my lock, but I try to channel my inner Vaughn.
Suddenly the tension in my fingers shifts, like a knot loosening. The steel shackle snaps open.
It’s an immediate dopamine hit, but very unlike the ones I get from scrolling an endless feed. I feel like I earned it.
Locks, as YC points out, exist to keep honest people out. I’ve been conditioned to believe physical security is impenetrable without a key. Seeing that reality break in front of me—and being the one to break it—gives me a weird rush.
I turn on my phone to take a picture of my accomplishment. It’s been… 3 hours?? As RICE’s social media manager, I’ve never ignored my phone for that long. Over 50 messages have piled up in my notification centre.
“I can’t get it open,” Wan Zhen sighs, holding up the lock. Instantly, the other novice lockpickers at my table lean in to examine his puzzle.
After a few tips and grip adjustments, it clacks open. I congratulate him and move on to the next challenge: a standard padlock. There’s no window this time. I can’t see what I’m picking, so I’m going by pure feel.
Somewhere inside are a number of pins, and the only way to find them is the faint tick each one makes against the pick. I close my eyes. It doesn’t help—but it certainly feels cool. It takes me 20 minutes for the latch to pop.
There it is again, that earned dopamine. When I describe it to my editor the following week, he says it sounds like finally beating an Elden Ring boss after 27 ‘You Died’ screens.
Maybe the big score was the ragtag crew we made along the way. Whenever one of us gets stuck, the rest lean in until they’re locked in too.
We’ll never get the Ocean’s Eleven ending with the whole crew watching the Bellagio fountains in silence. Ours is a table in the back rooms of Sim Lim Tower, clapping for each other as each padlock unlocks. No phone screen in sight for hours.
On the way home, I start noticing locks: the padlock on a shutter grill of a closed shop, the flimsy lock on a bicycle near the MRT station. This morning I wouldn’t have clocked either of them. Now each one looks like a puzzle I’ve politely agreed not to solve.
At Rochor MRT station, I take out my phone while waiting for the train. It unlocks the moment it sees my face. No pins and no tension wrench. Nothing to feel for.
I’m through all 50 missed notifications before I get on the train, three Instagram Reels deep. It’s the second time today I’ve lost track of time, but nobody’s clapping for this one.
