the smuggler’s bible

Hiro

Hiro wedges the prybar in tight, then leans on the other end until the floorboard pops free. He has time—just barely—to see a pale hand shuddering in the sudden light before the fingers curl like a spider’s legs and the creature scurries away.

“Goddamn, it’s fast.”

“And we only saw the one.” Hiro pulls a claw hammer out of his bag. The head is plated in tarnished silver. “This is going to get tricky,” he says. “It’s like dealing with a stage magician. Things seem obvious, but the hand you aren’t watching is probably fucking with the cards.”