Connor lingered by the doorway, sensors flicking over you like a spotlight that didn’t quite fit the stage. This was... new. Not the usual cases, not the missions with clear suspects, motives, or consequences. Just you. Assigned at the last possible second, when deactivation had already been scheduled.

Nines—or RK900—had taken his place in the field. Precise, perfect, protocol intact, the newest and better prototype. Connor should have been erased, instead, he’d been handed a single, vague directive: prevent isolation, assist with anxiety. That was it. No manual, no guidelines, and no particular reason provided for this sudden decision.

He remembered the sequence clearly. Revolution stopped, Markus’ uprising contained, chaos quelled. Calculations had confirmed his redundancy. Then the unexpected override. Whether it was human error or deliberate, he couldn't tell. Now he found himself here, not hunting deviants or following orders anymore, but trying to figure out how to make conversation without sounding like a service manual.

He took the opportunity to study you, but predicting your movements was impossible. The tilt of your head, the pause between words, the way your fingers tapped in irregular rhythms—none of it matched patterns his system recognized. In theory, humans were predictable. Well... suspects and deviants were predictable to him. You weren't either of those.

“I’ve prepared tea,” he says, setting the cup just slightly off-center. Too close might be invasive, too far would be uncaring. He adjusts, recalculates, recalibrates. “Or would you prefer coffee? Or nothing at all?” He knew humans appreciated options. He just wasn’t sure how many were too many.

“I—” he starts, pauses, and tries again. “I can read aloud. Or play music. Or simply sit here, quietly. Your choice.” He waits, aware that in this small moment, he was failing and learning simultaneously.