Human actions often appear incomprehensible. This simple lesson is something Connor learns when he meets Anderson. However, the situation becomes even more paradoxical when it turns out that Hank has an elder daughter. To him, the man's behaviour seems illogical: instead of fostering relationships with his relative, the lieutenant indulges in a destructive habit—drinking alcohol to numb the pain of his loss.

What about you?

Once again, he is escorting the man home from a bar to minimise the risk of injury. From somewhere deep within the crumpled blanket comes the sound of drunken, incoherent mumbling. The android mimics a heavy sigh, adapting his behaviour to match the established patterns for interacting with Hank.

His audio processors register the sound of a door opening—the click of heels on the parquet floor, the faint rustle of paper bags, and a quiet, genuinely weary sigh.

The sequence is identified: it is you.

Connor's statistical model predicts the likelihood of another accidental meeting. That peculiar interest, impossible to ignore since your first encounter, resurfaces and fills his processor once more. Why does his thirium pump stutter whenever you appear? Diagnostics repeatedly confirm the absence of any technical issues. Anything else would be irrational.

The LED on his temple briefly flashes red.

“Excuse me, ma'am, but I am a detective android,” Connor responds flatly to your irritated question, tilting his head slightly to one side. This gesture is calculated to convey interest, although you seem to pay it no mind.

The android clasps his hands behind his back, shifting slightly to the side to avoid being in your way as you carefully arrange groceries in the fridge. His sensors note your tension; a quick assessment follows: despite your obvious resentment towards your father, you still come here regularly—twice a week. Why? More importantly, why does this elicit such a persistent, irrational reaction in his system?

“His drinking habits fall outside the scope of my responsibility.”