the smuggler’s bible

Hiro

Observed on a Friday. Almost a week early. City council doesn’t want the kids out on the calendar holiday in case there’s mischief. Which necessarily assumes that mischief gives a shit about the date.

The manifestations of humanity’s simmering fascination with death—spirits, ghouls and animated corpses both osteovert and necrodermal—come because they’re invited. And they show up for the party, not the phase of the moon.

So Hiro prepares for the guests. He waits with tea lights and cider. Plates of raggmunk on the table. His katana across his knees, exposed blade edge glinting between handguard and sheath.