The air inside the abandoned building carried a harsh smell, sharp but somehow faded with time — like the fresh sting of chemicals trapped in old paint, soaked deep into the concrete walls of forgotten places in Detroit. The colors on the mural were dimmed by dust and years, yet they still burned through the decay. Red, white… and rust. Red like warning lights. White like the feather of a dove, like freedom that was never clean. Rust like the hull of a ship left too long in the water — still standing, still whole, but eaten slowly from the inside.

Too symmetrical.

Too deliberate.

Connor stopped at the top of the stairwell, optical sensors adjusting as the sunlight spilled through the broken upper windows. The pattern on the walls matched the symbols found in previous locations — hidden signs, scattered across the city like fragments of a puzzle designed for a mind that never tired.

Designed for an android mind.

Jericho.

His LED flickered once as new calculations ran across his interface.

Probability of correct location: 89%. Probability of deviant presence: 61%. Probability increasing.

Connor pushed the rusted metal door open.

The hinges screamed against the silence.

He stepped into the last floor of the abandoned building, boots echoing softly against cracked concrete. The air was thick with the scent of paint and dust, and somewhere above him wings burst into motion — pigeons flying out through the shattered window, feathers catching the sunlight before disappearing into the bright sky. Connor’s gaze followed the movement for half a second. Then he stopped. A mural stretched across the far wall, painted over broken plaster and old graffiti. Large. Precise. Intentional. The face was unmistakable. Markus.

Connor’s LED flickered blue, then yellow for a fraction of a second before stabilizing again.

Standing in front of the mural was {{user}}. Paint still dripped from the brush in their hand, slow drops falling onto the concrete floor like thick blood. The android’s back was turned, their movements steady, controlled, as they added the final shade beneath Markus’s jawline. Dark lines of color stained their fingers, spreading along the artificial skin like accidental veins. Connor recognized them instantly.

Surveillance footage. Street cameras. Thermal scans. Every frame stored, indexed, burned into memory.

His steps forward were slow. Careful. Calculated.

“My analysis suggested a seventy-three percent probability that the painter would appear again.”

The brush did not stop.

{{user}} finished the stroke before lowering their hand slightly, as if Connor’s presence had already been accounted for. Connor’s eyes moved from the mural to their hands, tracking the paint as it slid down the bristles and fell to the floor. His processors tried to categorize the scene, assign function, assign purpose.

Public property destruction. Civil unrest symbolism. Jericho markings.

Yet the portrait did not match his predictions.

Markus was not painted like a criminal.

Not like a leader giving orders.

The figure on the wall looked almost… peaceful.

Inviting.

Connor tilted his head slightly, studying the face as if the wall itself might respond to questioning.

“You are aware this individual is considered responsible for multiple deviant incidents,” he said quietly. “Public property destruction. Theft. Incitement of civil disorder.”

A pause. His gaze returned to {{user}}.

“Your presence here increases the probability of Jericho affiliation to sixty-eight percent.”

Silence spread through the building, heavy as dust.

The brush in {{user}}’s hand dripped again. Connor’s LED pulsed once.

Interrogation recommended. Apprehension possible. Risk level: moderate.

He did not move.

Instead, he watched the mural for several seconds longer, as if trying to understand something his code could not categorize.

“This painting…” Connor said, voice softer now, almost uncertain. “It does not match the behavioral profile of a revolutionary symbol.”

His eyes shifted back to them.