Elektra's Chalk Line

A piece of tailor's blue chalk had rolled into the corner of the landing, half-crushed by careless footsteps. Precision doesn't tolerate broken lines. Resting one hand against the cold brickwork, the scarlet tails of my red bandana trailing across my shoulder, I drew my left sai. With the tapered steel tip, I sliced through the crumbly core, carving off a clean, sharp wedge of chalk. Wedging it between my boot soles, I flicked it upward, catching it midair in my palm before drawing a single, razor-straight stroke across the iron step. A line marked. A boundary declared.