Black Hole

    I smile, innocent, oblivious. Compressed data flows into my link, but there’s not enough time. The train jerks to a halt. Bodies bump and jostle.

    He steps out, breaking the connection. I take a step… and stop. Something feels off. I let the doors close, the download incomplete.

    “Good luck.” I say.

    She hands me a card: my disposable credits. My ill-gotten gains laundered through her stream. I sink into the shadows as she straps on the jets, arms and legs, tying her long braids into a cap.

    The rain pounds the city, chasing the crowds underground for rush hour. Perfect hunting weather. I weave through the press of bodies with difficulty. The crowd is already restless, pushing even before the metro doors slide open.

    Funk music blasts in my skull, drowning the noise, filling me with fire. Once close enough, I let the mob sweep me forward. Near the doors, chaos begins. Shoving. Pushing. Elbows. But I’m small and light. I always slip through untouched. Squeezing between legs and bellies, I look for the islands of calm in the storm.

    I pull myself up by the hanging handholds, getting a better view. An elderly woman throws a venomous glance my way. I ignore her.

    In a sea of heads and colorful smart-clothes, I spot my targets. The ones in plain suits, the ones wrapped in stylish brands.

    I navigate the sea of bodies, the smell of perfumes and sweat hitting me in waves. I position myself and wait: a black silhouette against the noise and color. Funny how plain clothes stand out now.

    My target is a brute in a tailored blue suit. For some unknowable reason, he wears a mechanical watch, gold and garish. His neurotatts are gold too, spiralling into his neck and bald scalp in loud, offensive patterns. They run down his arms, across his hands, wrapping each finger in gold.

    The train halts. The doors open. The crowd shifts, bodies colliding.

    I brush the neurotatts on the side of his hand, gentle as the wind. In a split second, my malware downloads. He doesn’t notice.

    My children begin their work: bypassing firewalls, cracking encryption, compressing data. Two more targets stand nearby. 

    The man doesn’t move as I infect him.

    I face a woman across from me, dressed in a sharp business suit. Hair tied back. Hands folded neatly over her purse. I stare her in the face and tap a finger on her hand. She recoils, glaring. I smile and wink.

    Now I wait. The longer the better.

    The woman is first. I stalk in her wake as she stands.

    I reach out…

    But she looks back, eyes filled with hatred, clutching her purse like I’m a thief.

    I sink back, swallowed by the crowd.

    The next stop is his. The brute starts inching forward, parting people with ease. I move beside him, just before the doors, letting my hand touch his again. He leers down at me with a hungry look.

    He stands outside, staring straight at me, a broad smile on his handsome face.

#

    I don’t ride until the end of the line as usual, I’m supposed to meet Bruna tonight.

    Outside the metro station, I catch a bus. It is old and creaky, the AC is off in the oppressive summer heat, but at least it’s empty. I can’t even use my link to signal my stop. Instead, I press the filthy, loose red button. 

    The doors hiss open with difficulty, not even all the way. It is still drizzling outside, the night offering no comfort. Little bars line the street, music pouring out loudly. Patrons sit in plastic chairs, rows of empty beer bottles at their feet keeping count. Small motorcycle and auto-repair shops close their metal shutters, done for the day.

    I find the right alley: a strip of dirt and mud snaking between brick buildings, climbing into the favela. Several young men cluster around a plastic table where compressed packets of weed are neatly stacked.

    Their guns lie out in the open. No fear. No hiding. No need.

    I pass with my head down. They don’t stop me. Beneath the blare of my music, I catch fragments of the things they say to my back.

    The way up is dark, the lights patchy and irregular. On porch steps, families and friends gather to drink and talk. Old ladies crochet, watching. But in the shadows, I see the spotters: glittering eyes in the dark, tracking everyone. At their feet, small piles of fireworks wait to scream into the night.

    But the police rarely bother. Not here.

    Occasional adware slips through my filters, blaring, jagged noise that assaults my senses. In this lawless land they are aggressive and malicious, pushing against my defenses.

    But that also means I’m free. Free to act without police snoopers catching wind. I am the black hole. Data flows my way, but nothing returns. Invisible.

    To the Net, at least.

#

    I don’t know these streets, only that I must keep climbing. I get lost in the dark alleys and dead ends, but I always keep going up, along dripping mud and endless steps.

    I find Bruna at the top of the hill, standing on a rooftop. Among the forest of raw brick houses, this one gleams: smooth white walls, much larger than its neighbors, AC units jutting out like tumors.Several gun-totting “soldiers” guard the perimeter. They pay me no mind as I scale the walls.

    “Took your sweet time, Yara!” she wraps her arms around me in a hug.

    “Sorry. The hill…” I say, still catching my breath.

    “That’s what you get for living in the VR.”

    I smile. It is true, but I don’t care.

    “Paid job?” I ask, eyeing the men below.

    “Yea…” she hesitates. “The money was good. No harm, I guess.”

    I stay silent. I’d rather she didn’t. But who am I to judge?

    As she suits up, I activate my botnet. Thousands of fake accounts stand ready to flood her stream. I give her one more hug.

    I watch the stream through my link. The viewer count begins to climb, slowly and organically. Through her eyes, the city spreads in darkness and glowing lights. Towers rise from the valley, a shinning forest reaching for the sky. They bleed into the hills, where thick tropical jungle finally stops them.

    She turns west, where the dark hill melts into busy avenues and a vibrant night life. In the distance, the still waters of the Lagoa shimmer in the moonlight. I feel her heartbeat through the feed, the adrenaline building.

    She takes a few steps back.

     A deep breath.

    She runs and leaps off the roof.

#

    In her skin, I fly. Wind rushes past me, tiny raindrops stinging my face. Fast as a bullet, I weave through narrow alleys, skimming building walls.

    A dead-end rushes up.

    With a pulse from my jets, I shoot upward, barely clearing a rooftop before dropping back down.

    A low-hanging antenna clips my shoulder, I grit my teeth and hold steady.

    Dumbstruck faces follow my path as I rocket past, flying below eye-level, ducking the mess of dangling power cables.

    In seconds, I reach the bottom, bursting into an avenue jammed with traffic. My heart hammers as I swerve, inches from a screeching car. Horns blare, vanishing in the distance.

    I tear past joggers by the shore and launch over the Lagoa. Waves rise in my wake.

    I cut the stream, heart thundering. Sweat beads my face, mixing with the rain.

    She’s gone from view, but I know she’s safe.

#

    I put the finger on the scanner and hear the bolt unlock. I turn the mechanical key, fruit of my paranoia, then shove the jammed door open with my shoulder.

    Violet lights flicker on as I toss my backpack into a corner and collapse onto my small bed, exhausted.

    There’s barely room to walk in the tiny studio apartment. I grab an energy drink from the mini-fridge and down it in one go, heading for the shower, removing the city’s grime and dirt, one of the few luxuries I still allow myself.

    Then, finally, I crawl back into the VR.

    The soft contours of the terminal mold to my body, enveloping everything but my face. Neurotatt interfaces connect. Links activate. And I am back in my purple void.

    I’ve deactivated the voice-commands, they’re too slow, navigating instead using the command window inside a simulated late 90’s desktop.

    I download the data I stole today and begin sifting through their lives, looking for vulnerabilities, for something I can exploit. An affair. Tax-evasion. Illicit neurostims. Anything I can extort them with.

    But nothing prepares me for what I find.

#

    His feed starts abruptly, just as he exits his terminal: a sign of someone who makes frequent backups, wiping old data. A good sign, for me at least.

    I see him go into an office building, a towering structure in gleaming, reflective glass. Not a favela, not a forgotten warehouse, but a busy building in the center of the city.

    I catch his confident smile reflected in the elevator mirror. He owns an entire floor.

    Burly, sweaty men guard the entrance. Fluffy soundproofing lines the cubicle walls, muffling the screams.

    He makes the rounds. I feel his heart pounding. His excitement. Men, women, children… Chained. Tortured. A factory of pain and suffering. Experiences recorded, uploaded, and sold… both the aggressors and the victims. His gold hands are stained red by the end.

    I force myself to watch and rage begins to boil inside me.

#

    In the VR, an angel unfurls its wings before me, white and radiant: Bruna’s avatar. Her voice booms from above, soft and melodic.

    “Send it to the police,” she says. “Don’t get involved.”

    My avatar, a floating black hole, swings from side to side as I pace. Waves of purple lighting pulse outward as I speak.

    “How many times have we tried that?”

    “This is different,” she says. “They can’t just ignore it.”

    “Can’t they?” I snap. “They always do…”

    “Then post it on the net. If people see it, they’ll have to act.”

    I keep pacing.

    “I’m in the experience,” I say. “He saw me on the metro… They could track me.”

    She beats her wings, sending a gust in my direction.

    “Then send it to the police,” she repeats. “There’s nothing else you can do. Don’t mess with that kind of people, please.”

    “Coming from you?” I shoot back.

    “It’s not like I did anything illegal,” she shrugs. “Just a job like any other.”

    I pace in silence.

    “The police have to be involved,” I mutter. “It’s too big an operation…”

    “Just don’t do anything stupid, Yara.”

    “When have I ever done that?” I laugh.

    She hurls a lightning bolt at me. The light bends and vanishes into the black hole, swirling into nothing.

    “I’m serious,” she crosses her arms and taps her feet, suspended in the air.

    “No promises,” I say, and close the call.

#

    I send the police everything I can, an anonymous package. The location of the offices. The brute’s link IP. Which platforms they stream at. Even the crypto wallets where the payments converge. 

    Everything but the Experience itself. The uncorrupted file would expose me and I don’t trust them. No city becomes a narcostate like Rio without police complicity. And the politicians.

    But this is beyond drugs, protection rackets or the Animal Lotteries. Maybe there’s a chance… But I don’t hold high hopes.

#

    The streets are busy on a Friday night, as I venture out into the real. Álvaro is already working my street corner. Impaled meats interspersed with vegetables sizzle over the coals, wafting a sweet, smoky aroma.

    “Hello, uncle,” I greet the old man.

    “Thirsty?” he asks, flashing a crooked, toothy smile.

    “Sure. Give me a cold one.”

    He digs deep into the ice-filled styrofoam cooler and hands me a freezing can. I offer him my card but he pushes my hand away.

    “No.” he says. “This one's on me, you look like you need it.”

    “I insist, uncle.”

    “Then next week you buy me one.”

    “Deal.”

    I sip as I walk, music filling my steps with purpose. People overflow into the streets from bars and restaurants. I weave between them, swaddled in my black hoodie, dipping into a dark alley while checking behind me.

    No one follows. So I descend the short stairs and knock on the red metal door.

    It creaks open. A slim, shirtless man sizes me up, a gun visible at his waist. He nods, stepping aside to let me in. From deeper inside, I hear music. I smell the drugs, and the sex.

#

    I don’t peer inside any pink curtains or half-closed doors, heading straight down the corridor, to his office at the back where I stand before the door.

    With a click, it swings open on its own. I hesitate. I don’t like him.

    Luquinha lounges on a sofa. A giant man, his hairless body almost entirely covered in shimmering, multicolored neurotatts. His smart-clothes reflect me like broken mirrors: a haunted, distorted version of myself.

    “Shall I guess why you’ve come?” he rumbles, eyes glazed as he watches the cameras in his link.

    “The usual,” I say.

    “What kind of package?” he asks. “Pro? Platinum?”

    “Give me Pro. And it better be updated.”

    “Ohh, the girl has claws,” he teases. “Do I ever disappoint?”

    He extends a hand and I give him two cards. He holds them, interfacing through his neurotatts, draining the tumbled credits before letting the cards fall to the floor.

    “Fresh exploits, straight out of the jungle!” he laughs, jabbing a finger in my direction.

    I touch it, downloading the package. I shove it into a virtual sand-box, just in case. 

    The door shuts behind me. His eyes sharpen, grey irises suddenly gleaming. From his pocket he takes out a chip. Neurostims.

    “How about some fun, for once?” he says, offering it between two fingers.

    I don’t even alter my hormone curves or neurotransmitter outputs, much less take neurostims. I simply let my feelings be what they are, a quiet act of rebellion no one cares about.

    “No, thanks.” I say, voice firm as I back away.

    “Shame…” He pockets the chip. “I’m sure there’s something interesting hiding beneath that hoodie.”

    The door clicks open and I bolt out of the lion's den.

#

    I stop at a stand on the way back home, a little shop carved into the rusting metal container. I spot him out of the corner of my eye as I wait in line for my açaí. His dark, plain clothes are as conspicuous as mine.

    He looks away just as I turn toward him. I give up on my drink and sprint into the crowd, zigzagging and slipping behind clusters of people.

    What few cameras there are, I have hacked long ago, so I track him as he searches. Like a fish out of water: even his badge peaks out from under his coat.

    I let him pass me, then I follow. He heads for my building. No sign of snoopers on the net, no extra traffic on local nodes. My firewalls hold steady, no one’s tested my defenses.

    I sneak behind him. Careful. I grab his hand tight–for a second.

    He swings a fist.

    But I’m already gone, sprinting down the street.

    “Come back here!” He screams, chasing.

    I watch his every move. He can’t catch me, too many people. But it was pointless. My malware is ineffective. Not a regular anti-virus, then. Not normal police.

    Someone is watching me

#

    I hack into the police station, one of the vulnerabilities I bought already paying off. There are no records of me, not after I deleted the old ones. No trace of what I sent, either. No email, no files, nothing.

    Someone moved fast. Meticulous. They’re watching my building even now, not bothering to hide it. A blue-and-white military police truck sits across the street, assault rifles peeking from the open windows.

    I call Bruna.

    “I need help.”

    “What did you do this time?” She asks, arms crossed.

    “Nothing!” I say. “I sent it to the police, like you said.”

    “They didn’t do anything?”

    “Worse. They deleted it. I think I poked a tiger… The cops are watching me now.”

    “Oh crap!” The angel actually manages to look surprised. “What do I do?”

    “I need a place to crash.” I say. “And a distraction.”

#

    I crouch in the stairwell, watching the cameras. The mototaxi I ordered arrives: an old, pirated model. The driver glances around, already annoyed, searching for his client.

    I wait until he steps off the bike, then send it screeching forward at maximum acceleration, straight into the cop’s truck.

    It slams into the front door, flips onto its side, racing tires throwing up smoke.

    The cops burst out, grabbing the boy by the collar and slamming him into the hard ground.

    One of them levels a rifle at his chest. He crawls backward, hands raised, pleading.

    “Now, Bruna!”

    She nods, only her almond eyes visible beneath one of my black hoodies. Then she runs, sprinting across the cracked sidewalks. The cops stop kicking the innocent man. As one, they turn, as if a silent alarm was tripped.

    They see her. I’ve spoofed her IP to look like mine. They give chase, shouting, weapons raised. I know her well enough not to worry.

    I wait until they vanish down the street, then bolt in the opposite direction.

#

    There is a reason I adopted the call sign black hole. In a city where everything seeks to connect, to penetrate, I absorb it all. Nothing that falls in my gravity well escapes. And so, I remain invisible, even if I am recorded in people's eyes.

    Once I’m lost in the throngs of bodies, I send Bruna an encoded message.

    “All good,” she replies.

    I left all the signs of a hack, obvious and loud.

    They shouldn’t suspect a thing, but it’s best I avoid her for now. I catch a bus to Vila Mimosa, the red-light district.

    It’s busy tonight. Sweaty crowds wander from brothel to brothel. Here, bars and motels are little more than aluminum shacks along dirty roads. People drink, play pool. Loud music blares from a multitude of sources, a discordant symphony. Women offer themselves, even to me. 

    I look for a quieter section, where people are less desperate and few tourists venture. The facade stands out, one of the few places not crumbling into disrepair. Red neon letters over a shuttered window spell out Motel. A naked woman runs her finger playfully over my shoulder as I climb the stairs.

    “Hey, sweetie.”

     I ignore her and head inside. An older woman stands behind the counter, reading a magazine. She doesn’t look up.

    “I need a room, auntie. For the whole night.”

    She lowers the magazine and peers at me over her glasses, looking me up and down.

    “Man or woman?” She asks.

    “Alone.”

    “An entire night? That’ll cost you.”

    I don’t haggle.

    She leads me upstairs. I try to ignore the sounds leaking from other rooms.

    “You rest now, daughter,” she says, closing the door behind me.

    There isn’t much. A bed. A small bathroom. A bright red light. I don’t dare sleep on the bed, so I sit in the corner, knees to my chest, trying to ignore the cockroaches on the walls.

    I close my eyes and access my link. I don’t know his real name, butI know where he lives, where he works, but little else.

    I run his face through every facial recognition database I can access. Nothing, no trace. So I start posting on forums, in both the clear and the darknet.

#

    I don’t hunt here, not where a single touch could be misinterpreted.So I go to Lapa. The aqueduct cuts across the city, a relic painted in patriotic blue, yellow, and green lights. The crowds are already buzzing in the early afternoon. The many iconic, bohemian bars overflow into the streets and the strong smell of weed wafts through the air.

    The drunks make my job easy, some already passed out on the tile pavement. I dance from bar to bar, invisible, infecting with the lightest of touches, marking my targets, slipping in my malware. I track them as they connect their links openly to the net.

    I am a ghost in the flashing lights. Silence in the music that spills into the night. A seed of chaos among the mundane.

    I can tell who’s been hacked before. The ones who pay for premium protection. Who encrypt their files and spoof their IPs. It’s all the same to me.

    Funk pounds in my ears as I retrace my steps, harvesting what’s mine. Experiences… entire months of their lives. Now mine. All their secrets exposed.

    I live for this.

    An encoded message trickles in through my filters: Bruna.

    “I need you.”

#

    The thing about being watched is you can never be sure. A tracker in your pocket. A clever snooper on the net. An old lady on a porch. But we did everything right. Roundabout routes through metros and buses. Busy streets, crowded shops. All the while I monitored the net. The cameras. Traffic. I’m as sure as I’ll ever be.

    I slip out of the alley, sticking to the shadows. She’s already there, waiting, all bright colors and shiny clothes, standing out like a flare. She spots me instantly. 

    I freeze.

    Bruna just grins and shakes her head. So much for invisible… She lifts me in a hug before pulling me toward the tall glass building. We pause at the door, pretending to buzz an apartment while a sleepy guard watches inside. But I’ve already cracked it. The lock hums open.

    “Evening,” we say in sync.

    He nods.

    The elevator climbs to the 78th floor.

    “Aren’t we going to the roof?” I ask.

    “Nope!” She drags me by the hand. “Got a surprise!”

    We stop at the second door on the left. The lock’s standard. I step forward, but she blocks me.

    “Geez, Yara.” She tilts her head, long braids swinging. “You don’t have to smash every door.”

    She presses her thumb to the reader. The door clicks and she pushes me inside with both hands. Lights flick on. The apartment is massive: glass walls, sharp lines, polished floors. White everything, spotless. Furniture that costs more than me. And the view… I wander among the paintings and vases, gaping. 

    Suddenly, I wheel on my heels.

    “How?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

    “Ohh, just a follower,” she smiles slyly. “Kept sending me gifts, so… I asked for a favor.”

#

    The wind on the roof is cold, pushing insistently towards the ledge, while the smog filled sky glows.

    “Tell me when you land,” I ask her.

    “You’re not going to watch?”

    “I… I can’t.”

    She smiles broadly.

    “You? Afraid? Not the black hole!” She says, with air-quotes.

    I try to smile, and fail.

    “Just be careful,” I ask quietly.

    “I always am.”

    She hugs me tight and slips the cards into my pockets.

    “I owe you one.”

    I give her an encouraging smile. It’s the least I can do.

    She leaps off the building, gone in a split second.

#

    I pace. My heart hammers as seconds stretch. This is the tallest she's ever jumped. I resist the urge to regulate my hormones. The thought of billions of nanomachines, crawling along my tissues, floating in my veins, modifying my mind… vulnerabilities, just waiting to be exploited. I wish I could purge them.

    But I get it, I get why people tune themselves like machines. Smooth out every worry. Dull every pain. Live in shallow bliss. A fake life. A fake reality. There’s value in fear. In stress. In doubt.

    A message bips.

    “The eagle has landed!”

    I sag against the stairwell wall.

    She’s safe.

#

    Back in the apartment, I gorge on forbidden pleasures: cold, organic fruit I didn’t pay for, washed down with a bottle of wine whose label I can’t pronounce. I crank the AC full blast and bury myself in silk sheets, cradled in plush pillows, on a bed larger than my whole apartment. For the first time since I can remember, I sleep early.

    I wake to golden sunlight pouring through panoramic windows. I’m safe, for a few days. The terminal here is flawless: the latest model, sleek and elegant. A far cry from my patchy, overheating rig. It connects directly to a private node, lagless.

    I spread my digital fingers. I still can’t trace the brute, but I know where he’ll show up. He always returns to that building. My programs sweep the street feeds.

    By mid-morning, I find him. Same arrogant strut. Same golden neurotatts. Then he vanishes inside. No cameras past the lobby. There must be terminals… links for sure. But not connected. 

    Smart bastards.

    Instead I code a snooper. It’ll ride in his shadow and whisper everything back to me. I need to find a connection to his terminal. I need to know more.

    While I wait, I check the forums. There's a hit, a thread on one of the darknet stacks.

    My blood goes cold.

    A blurry photo.

    Me.

    Half-hidden by my hoodie, caught behind the closing doors of a metro train.

#

    I don’t leave the apartment for days. I barely leave the VR. I hardly eat, and don’t sleep much either. The bed is too soft. The air too clean. This apartment isn’t mine, and I don’t trust it. Bruna says it’s safe. That only makes me more suspicious.

    I prepare, malware and snoopers flowing effortlessly from my fingertips. Through distant eyes, I catch glimpses. A street camera, two blocks away. A drone with a busted lens. Just enough to know he's still out there.

    But I can’t track him. He knows exactly where the cameras don’t reach, where the net only trickles through rusted cables and burned-out routers. Derelict neighborhoods. Forgotten alleys. Cracolândias, where the addicted roam, wide-eyed and broken.  

    He vanishes into those slums, and I can’t follow. I will have to step outside, into that brutal world. I check my backups. Encrypt everything. Strip all identifiers from my link. I pull down my hoodie and plug in.

    The bass thumps into my skull.

#

    Laid out on a plastic sheet are several drones and flying curiosities, made of cheap plastic and pirated software. But they could be useful. I haggle the price down by half and stuff one into my backpack.

    The moto-taxis wait by the square. I flag one and ride, hoodie flapping in the wind as we wind between lanes. Once close enough, I hop out of the bike and stalk the brute, staying out of sight.

    Here, in the Center, I stand out like a sore thumb. More suits than smart-clothes. People rush by, faces tight with stress. I chew on a bag of pães de queijo, waiting.

    A ping alerts me.

    I follow him, two blocks behind, eyes linked to the feeds, jogging to match his long stride. We leave the crowd behind, diving into back alleys and lawless places. Eyes watch from abandoned buildings. People lie in the street, needles in their arms.

    I pick up my pace.

    Ahead, a man screams incoherent nonsense, neurons fried from bad neurostims. The brute shoves him aside. The wiry man crashes into a wall and slides down, groaning.

    He then knocks on a makeshift door of plywood nailed over a broken frame. The building’s a ruin. Trees grow through its collapsed roof. He disappears inside.

    I keep moving. Once no one's looking, I release my drone. It zips up into the sky, vanishing above the rooftops. A few eyes dart my way. I don’t linger.

    The metro station’s close by. Wrapped again in the safety of the crowd, I watch.

#

    Through busy streets, crowded metros and leaky buses, I follow him. A nondescript high-rise, one of many. A metal wall hides a small garden. A security guard and a doorman loiter just inside the gate.

    The brute is somewhere up there. I don’t know which apartment. I can’t hack every terminal, not with just a link. And I can’t leave. I can’t lose track of him again.

    I call Bruna.

    “You still talk with that guy who hooks up net access?”

    “Yea… what are you up to?”

    “Nothing. Just might need him. Can you send me his contact?”

    “You are up to something!” she huffs.

    “Please?” I ask, in my cutest voice.

    “Fine!” she relents. “I did say I owed you one.”

    He’s fast. Less than forty minutes later, a van screeches to a halt beside me.

    “Black hole?” he asks, smirking.

    “Yea.”

    His van is painted in blue and green. Live is stenciled on the side in big white letters.

    “You work for them?” I ask, surprised.

    He laughs. Without responding, he throws on a reflective vest and hardhat, slaps orange cones on the pavement, and gets to work like he belongs there. With practiced ease, he fires up a pneumatic hammer and starts breaking concrete.

    It’s not long before I’m holding a thick cable in my hands. He clips the end, exposing the fiber-optic core, and attaches a small, smooth half-sphere to it.

    “Express jobs don’t come cheap,” he says, pulling the cable from my hands.

    I transfer the credits. Then I plug in, interfacing through my neurotatts. Sooner or later, the brute will back up his experience. Then I’ll intercept it. Trace it. And finally, find out who he is.

#

    I catch it. A compressed, encrypted package. I try to follow it. It bounces from node to node, skipping across the globe, but I don’t lose track.I trace it to its destination, where a steel gate slams down in my path.

    State-level firewalls. Offline data centers behind air-gapped Faraday cages. Premium corporate protection, locked down. Just out of my reach…

    But I know where it is now.  There is always a vulnerability, waiting for me to discover it. I unpack his experience. I force myself to watch. I vomit in the street, my stomach empty.

    I hold no delusions about the world. But it still surprises me: the coldness, the pleasure…How someone can inflict so much pain.

    One way or another, I will save them.

#

    I scout the building, two gleaming towers of steel and glass, shining in the afternoon sun. A golden M shines between the towers.

    My hopes sink fast. Security’s tight. Not just biometrics, but bio samples. Body scanners. Neurotatt access.No way I can sneak it.

    But no matter how secure your systems, people are the flaw. No need for social engineering. Their profiles are public, social media and corporate bios plastered across the net. 

    I pick my target, a young man with a promising corporate career and the access I need. His entire life is laid bare for my crawlers. I even know where he’ll eat today: Thursday. Feijoada. The restaurant across the street.

    I spot him at the buffet line, laughing too loud with his friends. I run a playful finger across the back of his neck, tracing the swirling neurotatts. He smiles, a predatory smile.

    His hungry eyes slide down my body, but I’m already gone, swallowed by the lunchtime crowd. 

    The easy part is done. My baby’s inside him. A packet dense as a neutron star, waiting to unfold, to spread. From his terminal, to connecting devices. To links. To servers. I just need a way to pull the data out.

    A hand grabs me from behind, yanking back my hoodie.

    “You can’t just tease me and walk away,” he says.

    I yank my clothes out of his grasp.

    “Not interested,” I snap.

    He runs a finger down my cheek.

    “Don’t play hard to catch, gata,” he smiles broadly. “Let me buy you a caipirinha.”

    “I said no, leave me alone man.”

    I turn to leave, but he grabs my arm again, spinning me, his fingers digging into my flesh.

    “Hey, you started this!” he shouts.

    I grab his hand. Neurotatts interface. Calcium channels open. Muscles spasm.

    He collapses, paralyzed by cramps.

    I let him twitch on the sidewalk. 

#

    “Thank you for doing this,” I tell Bruna, as we stand on the roof.

    “You are paying me…” she shrugs, tossing me a suit. “Put this on.” 

    “Me? Why?”

    “You can’t fly without a suit.”

    “Wait,” I start backing away. “I can’t!”

    She tilts her head, the way she always does.

    “I can’t fly and throw at the same time. If you want this done…”

    My heart races. I can’t.

    She holds my face in her hands, staring deep into my eyes.

    “It’ll be fine,” she gestures to the horizon. “Look, an easy jump. No obstacles. No fancy stuff, just a fly by.”

    I don’t know how she convinces me, but she does. We stand on the ledge. A double suit, me and her stitched together like a kangaroo pouch.

    “I changed my mind! I’ll get someone else…”

    She jumps.

    We plummet, my face inches from the windows. I imagine myself falling, splattering on the concrete below. With a burst of the jets, she sends us into a glide, down into the city.

    The twin towers rush up fast. No time to think. I throw with my left hand as hard as I can, the building blurring past in a flash. I don’t know if I connect.

    We glide fast, ever lower, skimming rooftops, before the city breaks into a park.

    With a tug, the parachutes snap open. 

#

    Back in the apartment, I execute my plan. My beacon pushes invisible hands past their defenses. A net, where none should be. I find my baby, grown large and fat on bloated secrets. Through the metered connection, I extract his experiences. Years of his life. Years of pain, the faces of victims blur in their multitude.

    I know him now.  A man of evil pleasures. Ex-cop, turned mobster, turned… entrepreneur. His connections run deep. I follow the money. Police captains. Politicians. The list stretches on. 

    Through shell corps and offshore accounts, I don’t lose track. I find where it converges, waiting to be laundered. I compile everything, backed up by full experiences, unedited and uncensored.

    I post on wikileaks, forums, social media, anywhere I can remain anonymous. I email reporters, activists and NGOs. They can’t bury it now.

    His face flashes before my eyes, the wide confident smile, the cold eyes. A man like that deserves no mercy. I don’t demand a ransom, I expose it all.

    It’s out of my control now, nothing they do to me will stop it.

#

    I’ve been hiding in Yara’s place, a quiet, comfy apartment draped in pink. She stays with a friend, safer that way.

    My dump has raised a storm. It’s gone viral, spiraling out of control. I track the news, the manhunt for the brute. None of my leads panned out, but the office, the torture chambers: they’re gone. I see them on the news, broken and traumatized, victims led away in ambulances. Free.

    I hear a scratching. I glance around. Not in the VR, I realise, disconnecting.

    A hand grabs me by the throat, yanking me from the terminal. Suspended by the neck, feet dangling–the brute smiles at me.

    “Found you.”

    I interface with his neurotatts. But I can’t penetrate. New firewalls.

    I’m helpless.

#

    I am thrown into the backseat of a car, tied and gagged on the floor behind the seats. A sweet melody plays on radio, a classical symphony, like birds in flight, as the streetlights streak past. I struggle against the rope, but it only tightens. 

    I feel it when we leave paved roads behind. The truck groans uphill, wheels skidding on rough ground, the engine roaring as we rattle along narrow dirt paths. 

    A sudden, violent stop and I slam into a jagged piece of metal beneath the seat. He drags me out, pulling me from the rope that loops around my back, then throws me onto a chair and ties me down.

    We are at the top of a favela, the city sprawling below us in eternal lights. Up here, only the truck’s headlights cut through the dark. Before me, a well, a pit in the ground. Its depths swallowed in shadow. Beyond it, the mud and debris fade into wild jungle.

    He crouches in front of me, smiling, eyes glinting.

    “If I find out who you work for,” he says in a quiet, menacing tone. ”they might let me live.” 

    The gag muffles my reply.

    “It’s too early for that,” he’s smile broadens. “You’ve seen the Experiences… this is where the fun really begins.”

    I scream, but it comes out choked and useless. He shoves a plastic bag over my head, cinching it tight around my neck.

    I thrash. The plastic pulls into my mouth.

    I can’t breathe. My body spasms.

    I jerk, trying to tip the chair.

    He holds it fast.

    My lungs burn.

    The world begins to fade, darkness eating at the edges.

    He rips the bag off.

    I gasp, choking, gulping air, tears streaming down my cheeks.

    “You know how many credits you’ve cost me?” he growls, wagging a finger in my face. “Now I’ll have to start from scratch!”

    He punches me in the chest.

    Pain explodes, I almost black out.

    “This one’s gonna sell for a pretty penny,” he laughs at my terrified face. “I’ll make it my best work.”

    He walks to the truck and opens the trunk.

    I hear it. The heavy chop of helicopter blades, closing in behind me. He hears it too, looking up. Fireworks erupt over the favela, alarms ringing out in the night, blinding the chopper.

    A searchlight rakes across the hillside. Then locks onto him. He raises a hand to block the glare.

    “What the hell are they…”

    The shot rings loud and clear between the fireworks. He crashes onto his back, arms wide, sending out a cloud of dust.

    I yank at the chair, tipping sideways. Digging my heels into the dirt, I crawl toward the shadows. I hide, not letting the searchlights find me.

    In the shadows, I see the cops dump his body in the pit.

    I don’t cry out.

#

    “Darling,” my mother calls. “Come sit down, it’s almost ready.”

    I sit at the small kitchen table. She lays down a plate, fried slices of ripe banana, dusted with plenty of cinnamon and brown sugar. She pours two cups of coffee, heavy on the milk.

    “It’s been so long!” she says, laying her wizened hand on my lap. “How’s everything?”

    “Everything’s great, mom.”

    “And the job? Did João give you the promotion yet?”

    “Not yet.”

    I hold back the sobs. This is why I hate coming here. I know, it’s just an LLM, trained on my mother’s experiences, but… it feels so real. Like a piece of childhood memories. Yet, in a way, her memory lives on. Will live on… even after I’m gone.

    “You’re too skinny,” she says, pushing the carrot cake my way. “Men like a little something…”

    “Mom!” I interrupt, cheeks flushing red.

    A ping comes through. A message from Bruna. 

    I pause the simulation. My mother freezes mid-motion, coffee cup raised delicately in two fingers.

    “Watch the news,” the message reads.

    I do. My face stares back at me, framed in red.

    “The subject is armed with dangerous malware. Do not approach. Contact authorities immediately.”

    My hands go cold.

    Another ping:

    “They got me. Run.”

    Of course. The brute was not working alone.

    I look at my mother one last time, frozen in a memory that never happened. After everything, how could I not see? Nothing remains untouched in this city.

    I unplug.

    I run.