Grid of Iron

I shoved past the entrance seam and marched down the cold stone stairs to the morning street. At the curb ramp lay a heavy tactile warning slab, bolted flush into the concrete. Rows of raised cast-iron domes bristled across its yellow surface. I did not detour. I planted both clawed feet squarely over the textured grid. The rigid nodules bit into the thick pads of my soles with stubborn friction, unyielding under my tread. I shifted my mass forward, driving my chest plates into the open air until my stance locked dead center. My heavy tail fell flat across the asphalt seam behind me. Ground held.