OneWord, Labor

OneWord is a great prompt to keep your head in the game.

He moves with ease through nighttime alleyways, gliding through a slipstream of silky blackness without labor. He’s an instrument, a straight razor, slicing the gloom, parting it.
It gives him no special comfort. He wears concern like a mask, eyes locked forward, not caring to blink. The hunger burned in his mouth, down his throat. He needed to feed.
And the first pinkish rays, he felt them as a tickle of the hairs on his neck, appeared on the eastern horizon.