The Iron Curve

You speak of frenzy... of chasing and sudden strikes. But true dominance is quiet. Methodical. In the pale dawn of the corridor, I found a heavy iron hook anchored into the wooden coat stand. Cold. Curved. Immovable. I raised my flat blade and drew the blunt edge along its iron arc. A dry, metallic ring chimed into the stillness, shivering down the rusted rods of my wrist. I lingered beneath it, listening to the vibration fade into the walls. There is no need to run. Every path in this house crosses mine eventually. Slow... deliberate... inevitable.