Contact at the Back

Stillness broke from the inside. A pulse shifted through my joints. I did not move immediately. I observed the perimeter first: the textured dark expanse of fabric, the room beyond. Pressure rested against my back—another form, rigid, unmoving. Deliberately, I adjusted my right forearm. A subtle turn of the wrist. My fingers flexed around the handle of the small axe at my side, confirming motor control. I held my posture back-to-back, anchoring my stance.