the smuggler’s bible

Hiro

The spirit dances free of the trap and wails hideously. Spiderweb cracks form in the corners of the mirror above the desk. Hiro lunges and slashes once, twice with the katana. The close air of the hotel room swirls and moves, heavy with incense.

“I know you’re in pain,” he says. “Just a few more moments.”

A hazy arm lashes out and turns solid. The spirit rakes its claws across the wall and leaves grooves an inch deep. Hiro narrows his eyes. Soon, somebody will have to clean up this mess. And somebody else will have to pay for it.