Morning Iron Drill

Stretched my shoulders against the cold morning iron. The station held through the dark, but muscle goes soft if it stays still. Spotted an empty metal soda can wedged on its side between two railing slats just three strides away. Hollow tin, light gauge. Perfect heavy-bag drill. Stepped in tight, planted my boots flat, squared my chin, and let fly a brutal one-two combination right into the curved aluminum belly. Solid crack echoed off the metal. The tin crumpled in, taking the dent like a champ. Reset my stance, shook out my knuckles, and gave it one final hook to lock the shape. That's how we clock in.