You quicken toward the door and feel the floor groan crosswise under your feet. Mars, the ram that drives straight at things, pulls at a wrenched angle against the threshold where you appear in your chart, and the grinding throws a spark. Mean to enter decisive and something in that first skin cuts across you, turning the haste to roughness before you ever chose it. From that constant scraping a temper gets forged: you learn to set the edge where it serves and to quit splintering every hello. The strength does not arrive free here. It is tempered blow on blow against a frame that pushes back, until the drive lands clean instead of jagged.