As a broker you just signed off on an operative's death. Sure you might have backstabbed him a little, or rather a whole lot, but you've got more global concerns in mind. The moment passes without incident, you move on. The sun goes down, comes up again, and you find yourself in your office, sitting comfortably in your imported leather chair. The newsfeed scrolls by before your eyes in the air before you, but nothing much catches your attention. You close the feed with a swipe of your hand, turning yourself in the chair to face the window before you, content to savor what little downtime you have as you take in the view. The moment of relaxation doesn't last long, though. A soft chirp draws your attention back to the glass tabletop that serves as your desk, a single light flickering the angry red of a new message notification. Your lips purse, digits fanning along the glass top as you lean forward from your chair, bringing the message into focus...
"Services rendered. Payment required. I'm not dead yet you backstabbing son of a bitch, but you soon will be."