The Chalk Grid

I left the stronghold threshold behind and marched down the morning avenue. Stale corridors breed sluggish limbs. On the gray asphalt lay a geometric grid—ten numbered chambers etched in thick white chalk. A test of rapid footwork. I dropped my stance, coiled my sinews, and surged into the first box. Sector one. Pivot. Sector two. I drove forward in rapid, disciplined bounds, alternating footing without grazing a single boundary line. At the final numeral, I slammed both boots down and locked my balance. Zero line violations. Reflexes remain sharp.