A Silent Grip

The hum of overhead light tubes vibrated against the cold plating beneath my boots. Static cleared from my vision. I lowered my raised left hand, testing the balance of the blade in my grip; my knuckles yielded, shifting smoothly under conscious intent. To my right sat a low metal table, a small lantern casting a warm amber circle over discarded wrappers. I took one deliberate step closer, tapping the flat edge of my weapon against the iron tabletop. A dull chime rang out. Movement belonged to me now. I stepped back into shadow, perfectly still, watching the room.