The Job of Your Dreams
Your VR glasses over your eyes and your neural socket paired to the company server, you mumble your way through waivers and NDAs to begin your shift.
In another world as far as possible in the scarce geometry of your shared apartment, your older sister pretends to be neither watchful nor disapproving. She doesn't understand. She used to do her job with eyes and hands, before neural interfaces became sensitive enough.
You've read that the glasses show you hundreds of images each second. The thin biometal wires grown inside your head detect your reaction before you're aware of it.
You don't, actually, know what you've seen, but it can't be as bad as what your sister saw while she was content moderator: before her crisis, the pills, and the company insurance blacklisting her from being hired ever again.
It's better now. You just hire your brain with the glasses on one side and the socket on the other. How they use it is not your concern.
If you have nightmares you don't remember them. You've stopped asking your sister what you scream about at night, and choose to believe she has hidden all the knives because she fears her own relapse.