The last day on the job.

The life of a mercenary has its consequences. When the murky sun comes through the windows, I open my eyes. I no longer get up with the lightness of before. I take that time that animals take to stretch and start the day.

My name is Gustavo. They call me Dozer. Or they used to, back at work.

I've been in the same job for over three decades. As I get dressed, the aroma of the kitchen reaches me. Juliana is awake. The day has officially begun. Knowing that my wife moves through the kitchen with the grace of someone who already knows by heart where to find everything, with the soft sound of the back-and-forth of a production line, is for me the signal that the day has officially started.

Today is my last day of work. The savings are enough to pay for our cyberware repairs, doctors, and whatever needs we might face. We're a childless couple. We don't need much.

At my peak, that money was often the sum of a single job, but money comes and goes. When I met Juliana, she decided we needed money "for emergencies," and we started saving hard.

Foresighted as always, Juliana had created our fund for the last day. Today. The kitchen is flooded with the aroma of coffee. Not just any coffee. Today it's the best we have: Beans from cloned plants. A relief. It's been a long time since I've actually tasted anything other than roasted soy with coffee flavor, which we always use because it's the cheapest.

"Good morning, love," I said as I sat down at the table.

"Happy last day!" said Juliana. Her gaze was fixed on me, sweet, as always.

She gives me a particularly warm kiss that reminds me I'm living what I wanted: A life away from the vice of my old job. The news on the Holo TV has nothing to tell me that I don't already know. Politics, corruption, dead journalists, drug cartels in City 9, street gang fights, the day we celebrate the anniversary of the first dome.

The politician feeds the corrupt communicator, literally with the sum that keeps him on his side. The corporations continue with their business, and social control has been official since I was a child.

The coffee is what it promises to be: Healthy transgenic coffee. You can't easily get it anymore. I instinctively wondered how long that package we bought for "a special day" had been stored. Today I have a special job. While Juliana clears the table, I look for my work gear and store it in my long jacket. The one I usually wear for work.

Juliana looks at me: "Don't come back late, or work too much. Today, okay?"

"Don't worry. It'll be a light day," I lied. It's the last time, and it's for a good reason.

I left the house and closed the door as usual. León, the contractor I worked with for most of my life, passed me a job that could provide a better life after my last day. A very well-paid job. I check my gear: My MAG, or "Military Army Gun." That's the first thing I check. It's been with me for most of my career. A mercenary's weapon, we all used it. Versatile, portable, silent if needed. Today replaced by weapons that are theoretically more effective but noisy and with little room for subtlety when taking someone out. The MAG is a more elegant weapon, for a more elegant time.

My cyberware, a blister of Nexxor, and a holographic camouflage disguise so my appearance changes completely. I have to infiltrate a large Psicorp office. The client, according to León, is looking for a specific device and 2 neural crystals. In theory, that's it. There shouldn't be any surprises.

After an hour of waiting discreetly and observing the movements of the place, I've already registered the 4 guards by eye. Big, stupid. They only use their cyberware for lie detection. Nexxor, banned from the market and called "the lie drug" for the false empathy it creates, was originally created to suppress social complaints and work fatigue. Also used for those who, in their misfortune, need to have a smile in their day-to-day.

In my case, the thugs expect only corporate employees to enter. The camouflage is adequate: The appearance of a Psicorp production technician is believable. But my nerves might not pass the test of the guards' advanced optics.

With Nexxor already in my system, I approach and show my fake credential to the military police guarding the entrance. Their optics scan me from top to bottom looking for any anomaly. I simply wield a friendly smile, courtesy of Thalasson Global's drug.

"Good morning, Mr. Rodríguez. Have a productive day." It never fails... No detection surpasses total suppression. It's not about suppressing the lie, it's about suppressing the falseness of the event itself.

Once inside, I cross paths with several employees who greet me as if they know me. It's a toxic and disgusting environment to work in. Corpos always sacrificed their dignity in exchange for the socioeconomic key that places them as "worthy" in front of ordinary people, in front of people who don't handle their numbers.

The map I hide in my cyberware's memory tells me where to go. The environment is white to the point of sterility, and the air—the air feels like an ozone chamber after the building's additional filters. I prefer the taste of shit from the low-district markets to this gleaming white coffin.

I walk confidently to a table where several are discussing the Yakuza, and some news about the oyabun, the Yakuza leader. They must be the usual social critics, the ones who request neural disconnection penalties for anyone. I sit down and join the discussion as if I cared. None of them, entertained by the rhythm of my voice defending "our way of life," notices that I've pocketed one of their access cards. Fucking bourgeois... They don't even qualify as "Corpos." Low-level employees who certainly wish they lived in the high towers. Probably more drugged on Nexxor than anyone else...

The hallways are labyrinthine. The building is a maze of pneumatic doors with locks that only open with a level-four security card. I only need one more item.

I look for the bathroom on that floor without rushing but without wasting time. Inside, two guys are laughing about the repression in the low districts demanding food. I greet them and lock myself in a bathroom stall, observing with my optics, which show me the heat signature. I only need two things: For them to stay there, and to hear their conversation. That's fundamental for me.

"It's unnecessary repression," says one, leaving visibly upset.

The other chuckles. I press the button for organic waste disposal, wait a moment, and head to the sink. A luxury, I told myself. It's not a decontamination sink. The sons of bitches waste water to clean their asses and hands, literally.

"And what do you think, Rodríguez?" he says, looking at the card I'm wearing. "Do they deserve to eat or not? Ultimately, they're parasites of the state." He has the same smile. I return it.

"I think you have to keep a close eye on the situation," I replied cynically. The guy watches me cautiously. "I'll show you," I say as I bring my arm to my coat.

I shoot him with an inhibitor that will leave him unconscious and sedated. The MAG delivers again. Silent, and without the heavy attachments, it's no bigger than a pistol.

"Now the dirty work," I thought.

The entrance door to the storage room I'm looking for opens with a soft pneumatic hiss. The card works, and the retinal signature too. Poor bastard, when he wakes up he can decide if he likes repression. I needed a retina to enter. His seemed the friendliest to carry. Nexxor has its advantages in this job.

Inside the space inhabited only by boxes and files, my search begins. I don't have much time. There are no cameras here, but I don't want to drag it out. I promised Juliana. And besides, the poor bastard I hid in a bathroom stall would wake up in less than 45 minutes with something... missing and immense pain...

I contact León securely. I need more info. Anything here could be what I'm looking for.

"León, without visual confirmation it won't be easy," I say, showing the environment through my vision.

"It should be labeled as a transfer device," he replies dryly.

"Who's the client, really?" I ask for the first time. Something in that room triggers my intuition that there's something I don't know.

"It's not one. It's two. One expects an item, the other expects the second job. Both things are in this room."

I find the device first. It looks modern enough to be stored and classified as high value. I take the two neural crystals for extraction and storage—those are abundant in Psicorp's facilities. We all know what these degenerates' business is. Selling stolen memories and minds for the entertainment of rich corpos who want that adrenaline of feeling misery firsthand.

The last item is a neural crystal carefully stored and labeled "Daniera."

With everything I came for in my briefcase, I quickly leave the room. A guy greets me as he passes. I nod. The effect of Nexxor won't last much longer.

I feel like I'm starting to fake it. That's bad. The drug is already losing effect, and that guy would wake up in less than fifteen minutes. The arrival at the entrance door is fast. I don't think about anything other than getting there before I screw it up for a few lost minutes.

"Are you leaving, Mr. Rodríguez?" I nod, making an effort so that what's left of the Nexxor effect is enough.

They scan me from top to bottom again, greet me, and I leave the building. I go into the diagonals that lead to the towers where León sets the drop-off point. I missed this kind of work. A mercenary can accept the dirty or the clean. I evaluate that it's a matter of age based on my experience, and I continue until I hide in a dark alley. I remove the holographic camouflage protection.

With everything in order, and having breathed so as not to show weakness in front of León, I call him to tell me where the drop-off point is.

A Yakuza waits. It's not just anyone—it's noticeable that he's close to the Oyabun. This profession teaches you not to ask questions. I just hand over what he asks for. The crystal with a slight reddish glow inside labeled "Daniera." I bow and greet him before leaving, and about 100 meters ahead I check my account. The money was loaded. 500,000 Dollar Yuan. Enough for a lot today, little for most things yesterday.

León tells me to deliver the rest to him in person tomorrow. But I demand payment first. 700,000 convertible credits. For being the last day, it feels like the first.

I enter the house, leaving the mercenary at the door. Juliana is waiting. Her gaze goes to my briefcase.

"A lot of work?" she asks. Her voice sounds different...

"Open the briefcase," she says without more.

"But, that's not possible... I have to deliver it tomorrow. It's something they entrusted to me at work."

"Don't lie. I know what the job was. Besides, I paid for the job." You paid? I ask immediately.

"Open it," says Juliana with an enigmatic look.

I take the device and the two crystals. And I show them to her. Nothing seems unusual about them, but I simply don't know what use they have.

"You paid? You were the client? Did León know?" Calm down. Juliana interrupts me.

"This device is my gift for our retirement together. It's not just your last day. We could live far from City 9 if you wanted. You always told me you wanted to get away but that impossibility drowned you." What are you talking about? I don't feel irritation. Just an immense level of surprise. My own wife had paid me for a job? With our money? She had sent me on an errand.

"This device is used to house the mind, the soul of someone in a neural crystal. It was created by hacktivists and later improved by corporations. There are many different types, but this one is the safest. We don't need the crystals. They're a facade." Juliana looks at me.

"Connect with me. I've found what I know you want—a quiet end for both of us. Trust me."

A lot of time in this job. I look at her, smile, and simply clarify: "Only if you give me a coffee first."

Juliana's laughter makes the situation that should anger me become more enigmatic. I don't care about the errand. Now, I feel curious. Connect where? We enjoy the coffee talking about our past together. I don't think about it. I place the cable in the port on my neck, and she connects the device and also places a terminal on her neck.

"Ready?" she asks me.

When Juliana presses the button after I nod, the world blurs into fragments, the house disappears, City 9 fades from my mind. And for a moment, only darkness surrounds me. I declare myself dead until I hear my wife's voice.

"Wake up... here, sleep is relative and subjective."

I couldn't believe what I was seeing. The sea, houses nearby, an image that belongs to a past ended centuries ago. The disorientation disappears as I begin to understand. A while ago, I heard talk that in the deep net, there are coded spaces that at some point were even games for teenagers. Places where today we would kill to live.

Juliana revealed something I never imagined: She knew the Alchemist. That hacker terrorist mentioned since I have memory as if he were a legend. She had contacted him. Our minds were now in the deep net, our bodies in City 9. The crystals made it seem like we had transferred to them, although with the hacker's help, Juliana had taken us to the deep net, beyond the dark wall of the current firewall.

I breathed deeply. It felt less unreal than breathing in City 9. I looked at her.

"Thank you," I murmured. She smiles.

I've spent a life complaining about life, but now, I discover that my retirement place couldn't be better. People who already live here approach. We are not material beings, but I feel more material than ever.

Definitely, I didn't expect this retirement. But in the end, it's a great last day of work, and the beginning of a life that promises more than the one I led in physical form.



2026 Armando -Armand- Grandinetti. All rights reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without prior written permission.