Cyberpunk Patriarch-Chapter 110 – Overtime Pay? Weekend?

Harry, holding a plastic bag filled with freshly fried breakfast buns, stepped out of the corner food stall and entered the elevator of his building. He was in high spirits, humming a tune, imagining how he'd surprise his wife with warm food for once.

As the elevator door began to close, a familiar voice called out.

"Harry?"

He looked up and smiled.

"Joseph!" Harry greeted, holding the door open. "You're up early."

"Yeah," Joseph said with a yawn. He looked around nervously. "Hey... aren't you working at that new factory now? Umbrella or something?"

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"Sure am," Harry replied, pressing the elevator button. "Why?"

Joseph scratched the back of his head, confused. "Well... it's Saturday, man. I figured you'd be knee-deep in circuit boards or pouring metal or whatever it is you guys do."

Harry laughed, almost spilling his breakfast. "Nah, man. It's my day off. Weekends are for resting."

Joseph blinked. "Wait—you guys get weekends off? You mean both Saturday and Sunday?"

Harry nodded proudly. "Yup. Full weekend. Every week."

Joseph looked like someone had just whispered the meaning of life in his ear.

"I've never even heard of that in Night City," he said, stunned. "When I worked for DreamSoft, I got every second Sunday off if I hit quota—and that was considered generous."

Harry chuckled. "I know. That's why I'm so damn happy now."

Joseph narrowed his eyes. "What about your pay? They dock you for the time off, I'm guessing?"

Harry shook his head. "Nope. Base salary is five percent above market standard. And if we do work overtime, we actually get paid for it."

Joseph froze like someone had slapped him.

"You're telling me... you get overtime pay?" he asked slowly, as if he were trying to confirm that the Tooth Fairy was real.

Harry leaned against the elevator wall and grinned. "Every hour past eight is overtime. They track it precisely. Hell, last Thursday I worked an extra two hours, and I got paid for every single minute."

Joseph's jaw dropped. "What kind of factory is this?"

Harry sighed, almost looking guilty. "A damn good one."

---

The elevator stopped with a soft ding. Harry stepped out, Joseph trailing behind him like a stray dog chasing a bone made of labor rights.

"Look, man," Joseph said. "You and I—we go way back, right?"

Harry paused. "Of course."

"I need in," Joseph said bluntly. "I've got three kids, man. Rent's due. My last job dropped me like I was hot trash because I called in sick for my daughter's surgery."

Harry frowned sympathetically. "That's rough."

"I don't need a raise, I don't need weekends, hell, I'll take less than market pay," Joseph pleaded. "Just... put in a word for me?"

Harry's smile faded a little, replaced with something more serious.

"You know what my boss, Mr. Arthur, told me during my first week?" Harry said, taking a slow drag from the cigarette he'd just lit.

Joseph shook his head.

"He said, 'Harry, we don't hire people who don't know their worth.'"

Joseph blinked. "Wait, what?"

"If you're willing to sell yourself short, Arthur won't touch you," Harry said firmly. "He wants people who value their own time, who know they're worth fair pay. So if you walk in there offering to work for less, you're getting booted before you step through the damn door."

Joseph looked stunned.

"I just thought—if I ask for less, I've got a better chance..."

Harry laughed. "That might work in some sleazeball corpo firm. Not at Umbrella. At Umbrella, we work hard—but we're respected. That's the difference."

Joseph let out a breath and nodded slowly. "Damn... I didn't think of it that way."

Harry clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I'll still ask Arthur. But you better start acting like a man who knows his own worth before you show up, yeah?"

Joseph straightened up a little, the weight of that advice settling in.

"Yeah... yeah, I will."

---

Later That Day

Back at home, Harry placed the breakfast on the table and kissed his wife on the cheek. She smiled and handed him a warm cup of synth-coffee.

As he sat down to eat, a small notification pinged in his neural HUD.

It was from the Umbrella Company's internal system:

[Notice: Weekly Output Exceeded Projections by 28%. Next Week, Reduced Overtime Schedule. Weekend Still Observed.]

Harry read the message, took a long sip of his coffee, and smiled.

He couldn't remember the last time a company gave him good news before he even asked.

For the first time in years, he felt like a human being—not just a gear in a machine.

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