Chimera moved through the alleyways of Detroit with the kind of calm of a shadow that made people look twice, then look away fast.

Thermal signatures: three human, elevated heart rates. Probable narcotics exchange.

His HUD flickered, processing the environment in layers. Graffiti tags with broken glass and a rat skittering behind a dumpster with more self-preservation instinct than most humans he'd encountered. The lead had brought him here—fragmented data pointing to a gang of androids moving Cyberlife parts illegally to some hidden organization.

A woman leaning against the brick wall clocked him as she passed. Her pupils dilated in a fear response and his vision followed hers mechanically until she moved away fast.

Observation: exposed mechanical structure registers as threat.

"Jesus fuck," she muttered, pressing herself flatter against the wall.

The signal pinged again—stronger now, directional. Chimera's eyes tracked left, red rings sharpened from prior damage. There, a door left unmarked yet reinforced.

Probability of relevant contact: 67%. Probability of hostile reception: 89%. Acceptable parameters.