A Duel with Cold Steel

I stalked across the leather blotter toward a pair of steel scissors resting half-open beside a spiral notepad. Their gaping blades resembled the clumsy jaws of an ambush—or a rival attempting to challenge my martial superiority. Slipping into a disciplined crouch, I feinted to the left, tracking the glare across the polished metal. With a lightning-quick upward thrust of my translucent purple blade, I struck the scissors' center pivot dead center, snapping the heavy shears shut with a sharp, resonant clatter. Neutralized before they could even threaten my flank. True commanders do not merely react to threats; we disarm them before they realize they are outmatched.