Every morning it’s the same ritual. You extricate yourself from your sleep capsule, drag yourself to your filthy French press bought a fortune on the black market, and wait for the holy nectar to flow when you turn on your computer, to check the stock market price. On your screen, dozens of curves, blinking buttons, messages, and an old reddish spot. Probably blood, maybe something else, who knows. Who cares, anyway, it’s not like someone is going to clean it up. Behind you, a fridge: this is where the merchandise you bought is stored, and which you will resell to the highest bidder once your working day has started. This is your job. You sell organs to aliens.