The final satisfying [i]click![/i] on the hatch meant one thing: safety.

Hopkins had been tipped off about the emergency shelter days before the contact was found dead. Fugitive life after that was a harsh mistress: hiding from state sec every turn, always running, never truly getting away. Here, however, he could finally catch a break.

The shelter itself was sufficient: warm bed, six months’ water and food, enough weapons for a small platoon, and an audio recorder to leave a message for the next shelter-takers. Good for planning out his next move and to make the authorities presume him dead. Dozens of meters underground, he still did not feel completely safe, but it was the best he could ask for.

An hour of sorting and cleaning later, he lied down on the bed, taking his bag with him. Minutes of silently looking at the ceiling light later, he checked the stuff in there like granola bars, instant coffee, pistol, and phone.

Took the phone out. Sighed at the logo slapped on it: some guy’s happy face on top of a burger. “Bob’s Burgeria!” Only company he worked for in life. At least he’d removed the tracking devices beforehand.

There were no messages or missed calls or social media stuff, just as it’d been since getting off the grid. No access to the Internet as well, though better offline forever than being caught by them.

With no games or any other time-passing app, only photos and videos kept him company.

Decade-old pictures oozed memories of normalcy—pictures of him smiling with family and work friends. Back then, life at Bob’s wasn’t that bad: the place never got full and there was always too much stock or a cook late for work, yet they somehow got by each year.

Until Robert arrived: new kid on the block with a fancy business degree. The manager hired him to save the eatery from bankruptcy. Robert did just that, with a forty percent monthly profit increase to boot. The manager decided the burgeria would be in better hands if they were in Robert’s, so the manager handed ownership to him.

Hopkins had taken photos of every company event, which didn’t stop with Robert stepping up: new branches opening everywhere, big-budget commercials being shot, entering new industries like construction and security.

Meanwhile, Hopkins was stuck in the same old burgeria. More working hours became obligatory: last time, they slept and lived in the kitchen. Salary dipped too, with “expansion reasons” being the excuse.

Soon, Bob’s was everywhere. Pictures of Bob’s-sponsored material came up: merchandise, TV shows, social media ads, sports teams. Bob’s was the epitome of rags-to-riches.

After Bob’s sudden corporate takeover of several countries, the number of photos fell off a cliff. Images of Bob’s police force patrolling the streets, of friends only wearing Bob’s uniforms. Those who’d asked to leave the supercompany were ignored. Those who’d asked again mysteriously disappeared. They later turned up dead or came back to work smiling too much.

He’d tried to leave politely.

[hr]

“Don’t you see? You are very important to this company. You were there during its dark ages.”

“I’d rather have the old stupid burger place than this savagery, Robert!”

“Ah, but you don’t understand, Mister Hopkins. My purpose for Bob’s is to increase its profits: just what I was hired for.”

“But for what?! Profits for what?! Don’t tell me you’re hoarding stuff just because!”

“...”

[hr]

Hours later, Hopkins sat on his bed. Dinner was done, and there was nothing else to do but sleep. Scanning the outside would have to wait until next week.

In his hand was the audio recorder. With a tired sigh, he brought it up to his mouth and turned it on.

Staring straight out, talking to nobody.

“If… if you’re hearing this, I’m dead. Take what you need. Might not be much, but it’ll be enough to last you a few weeks. If you can, resist Robert. And… a-and if you recognize me… I’m sorry."

He paused. He coughed.

“… signing off for the last time, fighting against greed itself, this is the founder and rightful manager of Bob’s Burgeria, Bob Hopki—[i]mmnf![/i]”

Gagged, bound, blinded. Hands, shackled by cold steel. Stunned. Couldn’t move.

Insensible radio chatter. Then, a stranger’s voice as Hopkins was dragged away.

“The concept of obstacles is now the legal property of Bob’s Burgeria. You shall be repurposed. Your mind and soul are Bob’s. Your purpose is to increase Bob’s profits. Thank you for your co-operation.”