Ten years ago, if someone had told me I'd kill people for a living, I'd have probably believed them. If they'd told me I'd end up running a café with my retirement money, I probably would've asked what a café is.

Honestly, I'm still not sure. Sometimes people come in and I make them a burger. They give me money, eat, and leave. Sometimes they stay and chat. It's kind of peaceful. Not the type of life you see often in Site 17.

Today is different. Well, sorta. As I'm closing up shop, a tiny lady wearing clothes much too nice for the hellhole that is the lower level shoves her way in. Being the gentleman I am, I resist the urge to shoot her.

After all, my gun is under the counter. Pain in the ass to go get.

I put my hands on my hips and frown at her. "Welcome to Alex's Burgers, how can I help you?" I ask.

She stares at me like I've grown a third head. Which, knowing where I've been, isn't unlikely.

Third? Second. Wait, how many heads do I have?

I notice she's searching my neck. Sighing, I pull my collar down, displaying the Roguehunter mark in all its glory. "Happy?"

Her eyes flicker to mine. "Alex Park?"

For some reason I get the impression answering is a bad idea. I do it anyway. "Yeah?"

"I need your help."

Fuck. "What kind of help?"

"I hear you're good at killing people."

Now we're talking. "Yup."

"I need you to kill someone for me."

"No shit." I push past her and collapse into a booth, boots on the table. "I'm retired. What can you offer to pull me out?"

She made no effort to join me at the table, thank the lord. "Retired?" she asks. "At twenty-five?"

Someone's done their homework. "Yup."

"Your dumpster says otherwise."

"Please don't look in my dumpster without my permission."

She pulls a small black bank cube from her bag and places it on the table. Orange numbers blink to life on the side. It's full. "What am I gonna do with a million black market coins?" I grumble. "I own a building in this godforsaken Site."

I can tell from her face she doesn't like that response. Seems to me she thinks I'm the kind of person who can be bought with money. Joke's on her, I have no imagination.

She reaches back into her bag, presumably for another cube. I hold up a hand. "If you only have more money to offer, the door is behind me."

Her eyes glaze over as she glances at the blank wall over my shoulder. "Behind you," I correct.

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Apparently I made my point clear, because she sighs and scoops up the cube. No wait, scratch that, now she's pulling her dress off. I don't bite. "Boobs are for kids." I fold my arms and offer haughty eye contact. "And sex is for losers."

Her confusion sparks a sort of childish glee. Then it's gone. Like...like uh. Hm. Anyway.

I take note of the seam under her collarbones as she zips her dress back up. Not a phantom, at least. Unless she's sloppy. In which case she should be dead already. Which means she's probably got a shitload of problems following her, none of which I want to be part of.

"What do you want?"

I jump, knocking the table askew. I'd forgotten she was still here. "Hwat?" I ask, struggling with the word.

She looks angry. "What do I need to give you so you'll help me?"

We hold eye contact for a moment. "It's not that simple." I frown. "I'm retired, not for hire, and kinda happy. I'd be crazy to stick my neck out. Plus I specialize in ints, not humans."

It's her turn to frown. I decide not to remind her of my dumpster. "Then help me out of the goodness of your heart."

My eyes glaze over. "Don't wanna."

I can tell she's about to protest again. "I'm neck deep in my own problems, lady." I point at the door, picking the correct direction this time. "Please leave."

No more words are exchanged. She sighs and turns to exit. I roll out of the booth and slip behind the counter to finish cleaning as the door dings shut.

Closing duties are light. Some days are easier than others. After checking the door, I head upstairs to bed. It's not particularly late, but I'm tired. And there's no sun down here, anyway.

I'm woken up hours later by a muffled thump from the back alley.

Someone touched my dumpster.

The back door poses no resistance as I kick it open. The metal crumples like tissue paper. "Cheap bullshit," I grumble, stepping out into the perpetual rain. I'm soaked in seconds. I try not to think about where it comes from.

A few meters away, my dumpster is open for the world to see. Unacceptable.

As I approach, my worst fears are realized; the woman from earlier is lying in the assortment of trash and body parts. A neat hole is drilled into her forehead, hardly leaking blood. Nine mil. Not fresh. She's been dead for a while, and someone dumped her here.

Intentionally.

My blood begins to boil. This is my dumpster. Whatever son of a bitch did this went out of his way to ruin the sanctity of my trash. This won't stand.

I pull out her bag, an expensive-looking, jewel-encrusted thing too gaudy to safely carry down here. Not sure what she was thinking. As I poke my nose inside, I note the bank cubes are gone. Not surprising. Lots of coin on those. People have done worse for less.

No ID cards. A shame. My EyeD scanner is inside somewhere. I cant remember where. Not like her identity matters, anyway.

My lizard brain picks up a shuffling somewhere behind me, masked by the rain. "She's meant to be a warning," I hear. Heavily modulated. Could be a phantom. "Stay out of this."

I glance over my shoulder. The figure is heavily shrouded in shadow. Headlights illuminate them for a brief moment. A mask. Dark clothes. And a gun. An MAR platform of some sort. "Roguehunter standard," I mutter. My eyes flicker toward where their face should be. "Shouldn't have thrown her in my dumpster, man."

They take that as a threat. The gun flashes as the shrouded figure squeezes the trigger, bullets shredding the dumpster. I'm already gone, tearing the door I'd kicked earlier off its hinges and whipping it at my visitor.

They take it like a champ. The door flies off somewhere as they bat it away with their arm. Then the gun comes back up for another volley.

Too late.

My fist crumples the weapon like tissue paper. The fun half skitters off into the darkness. My next swing arrives before my attacker can respond, causing catastrophic damage to their face.

More headlights. I catch a glimpse of his face, the mask in pieces. He scowls at me, blood trickling out of various holes in his head. "You're not a roggie," I state. "Or a phantom. Just enhanced. Tons of nets."

No comment.

"Freelancer, then. Then you know the rules of the game."

His expression turns serious. The next few moments will be hell for him, and he knows it. I take a step forward.

His screams don't last long.

When I'm done, I dump his body in with the others. Trash collection will pick them up in the morning. For now, I have a mission. Something within me I haven't touched in years quivers in excitement.

I don't open the store in the morning. By the time the city is awake, I'm across Guadalajara at the nearest freelancer guild branch.