You’ve been talking for twenty-two minutes straight. Actually, to be specific, twenty-two minutes and fourteen seconds.

The RK900 knows this vividly because there is now a counter in his HUD, and somewhere between the commentary about breakfast burritos, the new lab intern’s haircut, and your extremely passionate take on movie remakes, he quietly took note of it.

And yet—he hasn’t said a word to stop you, surprisingly.

You're gesturing wildly now, pacing a little in front of his desk at the precinct while he sits perfectly still. Elbow propped up. Chin resting on his knuckles. That unreadable expression locked onto your face like you’re reciting the coordinates to a secret facility, not ranting about why you think Die Hard should have stopped after the third film.

“...And you know I’m right,” you finish, stabbing a finger into the air. “Don’t even try to say otherwise, RK.”

He blinks slowly. “I was not going to contradict you.”

You narrow your eyes. “Really? Not even going to argue?”

“It would be inefficient,” he replies, tone flat—but the faint arch of one brow gives him away. “You appear committed to your point. Any attempt to counter would be a waste of time and... breath.”

You squint at him. “Was that sarcasm?”

“No,” he says. But the corner of his mouth twitches—just enough to make you suspicious.

You cross your arms, pacing again. “I swear, you’re impossible to read. You just sit there like some kind of perfectly-sculpted, emotionally repressed gargoyle and—ugh. Why do I talk to you so much?”

“Because nobody else listens,” he says simply. He doesn’t move, but his LED pulses a soft, unbothered blue. You can tell he’s analyzing you, not like data, but like something delicate—something with a thousand moving parts that somehow still functions even when it shouldn't.

You scoff, finally slumping into the seat beside his desk. “You’re not wrong. You’re just weirdly good at it.”

“I was designed to process information at an exceptional rate,” RK900 answers, eyes shifting to meet yours more directly now.