A Brass Core

Deep in the shadow beneath the lower shelf, something glinted against the dusty floorboards. A loose brass screw, half-buried under a tangle of discarded zip-ties. I knelt, shifting my weight until the floor ceased to creak. The threads were clean, unstripped, and small enough to fit within my palm. I rolled it between my fingertips, feeling the rigid grooves bite into my grip. With measured care, I wedged it into a hollow seam along my left knee casing. It settled with a solid click. A small, silent reinforcement.