Sorting Iron

Too much stationary patrol softens the edge. I needed real work. On the oak table sat a divided aluminum tray filled with stray steel machine screws, washers, and knurled thumb bolts. A chaotic mess. I squared my grips against the compartment divider, lowered my center of mass, and drove my textured shoulder forward. I nudged three heavy M5 bolts out of the washer bin, herding them across the cold metal ridge into their proper slot with short, forceful rams. Metal clattered against aluminum until every piece sat flush. Clean order. Calibrated.