the smuggler’s bible

Rumen

Rumen pulls out the ticket and feeds it through the slot. There are numbers on one side, a symbol on the other—some kind of eyeball or something. The ink is blotchy and smeared.

“So what?” the voice behind the door says.

“So I found that with my stuff.”

“Uh huh.”

“Come on, man,” Rumen says, gesturing vaguely to the eyeball sprayed beside the door in bright crimson. “There’s other shit I could be doing.”

The slot clangs shut and flaps open again several minutes later.

“All right,” the voice says. A deadbolt clicks. “You’re in, but watch the attitude.”