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Hanzo extrapolates his fingers, popping, recursing, mandelbrating: branched at some knuckles, merely bent at others. His arms sag under their weight. His nerves whisper back about the cold tile floor and the warm breath of a computer exhaust fan; he stubs a dozen thumbs, bends them back and climbs creepers up and over. Fingers pile up in the corners. Hanzo’s bones begin to ache. He picks up a phone and dials it with somebody’s chopsticks. His grip wraps chair legs, table legs, people legs: a short man yelps.

“We’re going to need some more paper,” sighs the policeman with the inkpad.