Swung hard through saturated steam, the six-foot iron boat-hook whistled straight toward Julian’s ribs.
The sharp forged steel gaff whipped past Julian Vance’s right ear, missing his neck by less than three inches and gouging a shower of orange sparks out of the monorail support beam behind his head.
Julian didn’t flinch. In retail inventory management, when an overloaded pallet of two-liter soda bottles tipped over from the top tier of warehouse racking, you didn’t freeze and stare at the falling freight. You ducked into the structural triangle of the steel uprights, kept your boots planted, and watched the trajectory of the falling cases.
At Starlight Mart Store #04, district safety inspectors always told clerks that fear caused more lost-time injuries than falling merchandise. If an angry customer swung an umbrella at your register because their lottery ticket didn’t hit the daily number, you didn’t swing back. You stepped behind the cash wrap, placed both hands flat on the stainless-steel bumper, and let the store’s physical barriers absorb the impact.
The lead Notary guard lunged forward with a second thrust, his rubber boots sliding across the lime-slick grating. “PULP HIM!” the guard screamed through his respirator.
“TAKE HIS ARMS! THROW HIM INTO THE HOOD!”
