A thirty-second trailer was all it took to unleash one of those moments destined to enter history.
-—The world of geeks is about to change— he replied, almost as if he knew the predestined date, one that wrapped around everything like water. Jonathan was fully aware that what lay ahead was repetition, yet no matter how hard he searched, he could not find it anywhere.
-—Everyone's world— Carlos said, seeing it all for the first time—. They built a square screen with ten clicks, hopping through channels ten to fifteen. It's completely entertaining, briefly announced.
-—Everyone's, really. It seems this work is going to break every canon of cinema— Jonathan replied—. It was hard not to see echoes of Ghost in the Shell, mixed with an American edge and an allegorical blend of magic, machines, dystopias, and spies moving back and forth, with special effects that were entirely new for the time.
-—I found it— Mauricio replied, grabbing a VHS that began recording from different angles. It looked like a fortress. They recorded the trailer with a deceptive skill that left people speechless.
Everything begins with fragmented, almost clandestine images: vapors and smoke drifting through the air. Green screens, lines of code falling like vertical rain, numbers that seem to breathe. There is no context, only a sense of constant surveillance, as if someone—or something—were watching the viewer from the other side of the glass. A seemingly ordinary man appears: Thomas Anderson. His life feels mechanical—gray office, repeating cubicles, expressionless faces. But something is off. His gaze is never still. Something does not fit. Night finds him awake in front of a computer, illuminated by the artificial glow of the screen.
A woman dressed in black moves with impossible precision, dodging bullets, leaping between buildings as if gravity were merely a suggestion—Trinity, in that gothic, unreal outfit of black glasses and leather clinging to her body. A bald, serene man speaks of choice, of awakening, of a truth that hurts more than ignorance. No one explains what the Matrix is.
Matrix. A distant body. Matrix.
There is no linear narrative. Questions are cast like hooks: What is real? What if everything you believe is a simulation? The tone is cold, almost philosophical, yet charged with urgency. Something is about to collapse.
The trailer ends without closure. It offers no answers, no comfort. It leaves only one unsettling certainty: the world you see is not the world that is, and once you doubt it, there is no way back.
-—Epic— Carlos commented, fully aware of the problem.
-—There's a full-color page in Billy's latest comic. That comic about the kid who's a ninja— he replied, knowing how incredible it was. It was a photo of Neo in his office suit, pulling his shirt open Superman-style, a black suit behind it, sunglasses in his hand, breathing life into the image; every frame was what people call a beautiful bargain of clichés and memories.
--It premieres on June 14— he whistled knowingly. A worldwide release. The news already seemed visible, now frequent, like a whisper in the air. Everything was delegated to Lux Animation's advertising, which used three channels to run it over and over, spreading it across different television spots around the world and across other major outlets—travel, news, and Billy's name, who would bet on the tradition of an international tour, in front of thousands upon thousands of fans.
…
-—I have to leave San José— Billy told his father. It was barbecue day; his brothers sampled the meat while his father drank a beer, resting comfortably. The Carson family's life had doubled, then tripled effortlessly over the past few months. Each of them seemed strangely distant.
-—When you come back, nothing will have changed— Thomas replied with certainty, looking at his parents: one possessed the strength of a bull—his mother, Helen, who delighted in playing with the children—while his father began to ache everywhere, and although he had improved, he still required great care.
-—I hope so— Billy replied calmly.
-—Come on, I want some of that new meat your wife makes— Billy added, eyeing the juicy cuts wrapped in foil, flavored with mayonnaise and pepper, making his lips tingle.
…
Billy and Thomas had been playing cards for days; one more hand remained, a brief game of poker played with minimal effort. A game of pairs: two eights. On the table lay a seven, a king, a three, and a five.
-—I'm getting ready to sell all the shares. I think it's got a bit of Nokia in it— Billy commented, tossing in a little more, perhaps doubling down with confidence in the sales victory ahead. For now, the company was on the rise, but that mattered little to Billy.
In his first round,d he bought a total of 4,700,000 shares, plus a second batch of 5,600,340 and a third of 3,400,340. He did well to emphasize that the stock price had been acquired back in 1992, 1994, and 1996, when he stopped buying Nokia shares at $0.17, $0.50, and $1.11.
With a total of 13.4 million shares in his hands, if he were to sell at ten dollars, his profit would rise to 130 million, but he hoped to double that figure, leaving no quarter.
-—When do you plan to sell?— Thomas asked.
-—Early 2000. It's the best year to start unloading— Billy replied, knowing full well that Thomas held a considerable portion of Nokia shares himself, with gains of at least 500%. A company built to grow, and that gave Billy a sense of triumph.
-—I'll take your word for it, son— Thomas replied, laying down a straight with a six and a four, beating the pair in Billy's hand.
-—How much do you have in your pockets?— Thomas asked.
-—Enough that once I sell, I could buy a small country— Billy replied, half joking. The money at his side was nothing complicated, just a faint notion of what remained. Billy toyed with ideas of buying a few fine islands, of christening them with his first drink, of filming a series in the Caribbean Sea or on aphrodisiac beaches that would yield unforgettable shots.
-—It wouldn't hurt to start selling some shares— Thomas replied— with the remaining money, I could buy a few solid commercial properties I still have in mind, the kind that pay for themselves over time.
-—Then I'll let you know when I start selling on the market; the next few months will be very optimistic— Billy replied simply, watching the sun nearly set, as if everything were being carried toward another new project, one that would soon be his, now that he had certain purchases to make.
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