The "Last" Tariff, or The Mirror Trap

In the app, he was called simply "Ch." The car was a black sedan, so polished that it reflected not the street, but the sins of passersby. The interior smelled of ozone and expensive leather. No smell of dampness or mire. The Corporation went through a rebranding back in the 90s.

Ch. hated conversations. Not because he was gloomy, as the myths claimed. But because the "Olympus-Taxi" algorithm lowered the rating for "excessive engagement." The rules were strict:

1. Do not look the passenger in the eye (only in the rearview mirror).
2. Do not take tips (payment is deducted automatically: not in money, but in the client's most vivid memory. Reach the destination — and forget your mother's face. Such is the price of fuel).
3. Deliver from Point A (Morgue) to Point B (Distribution) silently.

If the rating dropped below 4.5, the driver was stripped of immortality and sent down, to the clients. This was called "Urshanabi syndrome" — in honor of that fool who once pitied a passenger and lost his license.

That night, the order came from an elite address. The passenger was a man of about forty, in a suit that cost more than the car itself. He sat in the back seat and, contrary to custom, did not start crying or praying. He was silent. 

Ch. drove off. The city floated past the windows, but instead of rain, someone's tears lashed against the glass. The River Styx was now just a six-lane highway without streetlights. Ch. glanced into the rearview mirror. In the Egyptian branch, he was called Mahaf — "The One Who Looks Behind." The mirror was his curse. In it, he saw not the passenger's face, but what he was leaving behind. Usually, there were ruins: abandoned children, unfinished books, betrayals. But behind this passenger, it was clean. Emptiness. The sterile, ringing emptiness of a man who lived only for himself.

"We've arrived," said Ch., parking at huge gates resembling the entrance to a data center. "Get out." The passenger didn't move. "I said, get out. Your 'Memory' transaction will go through now." 

"I won't get out," the passenger replied calmly. 

"That's a protocol violation. My rating will drop." 

"I don't care," the man looked into the mirror, meeting the driver's gaze. "I know where we've arrived. I read the user agreement. There, behind the gates, is nothing. But here, in the car... it's warm. And jazz is playing."

Ch. tensed up. This wasn't in the manual. "If you don't get out, Security will come. The Cerberi don't like to wait." 

"Let them come," the passenger chuckled. "But while we are in the car, I am the client. And the client is always right. Drive me around some more, Chief. I have a lot of emptiness in my account, you'll like it."

Ch. looked at the meter. The rating started blinking. If he didn't drop off the soul, he would be demoted. If he used force, he would be demoted. He looked in the mirror again — that very mirror of Mahaf which shows the essence. And for the first time in eternity, he saw not the passenger there. He saw himself. A tired driver who ferries other people's fates but has none of his own.

"Where to?" Ch. asked dryly, turning off the geolocation. 

"Anywhere where there is no such rain," replied the passenger.

Ch. locked the doors. A red notification lit up on the smartphone screen: "ROUTE REROUTED. URSHANABI LICENSE VIOLATION." 

He turned off the app. The screen went dark. For the first time in thousands of years, he was taking someone not where they needed to go, but where they wanted to go. 

The black sedan made a U-turn across the double solid line of the Styx and dissolved into the fog, carrying away two fugitives — one living dead man and one former god.