A Firm Grip

Silence first. Then the weight of my own boots against the stone. I stood still, surveying the perimeter. Nothing moved in the purple haze. I unclenched my left fist, slowly testing the knuckles, then tightened it once more. Solid. Controlled. I shifted my weight forward by a fraction of an inch, confirming my footing on the seam between two tiles. The ground held firm. Good. A man stands his ground, no matter what fog rolls in.