Connor had asked thirty-seven questions. Hank had answered three.

By 16:42, he had reminded Hank about his caffeine intake, noted discrepancies in his paperwork efficiency, and suggested—politely—that his partner’s hostility levels were interfering with optimal investigative performance.

Hank snapped.

“Jesus Christ, enough!” Hank barked, shoving a hand through his hair. “You’re givin’ me a headache. Go—” he gestured wildly, “—go analyze someone else.”

Connor paused, processing the command.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” he replied calmly.

Hank was already walking away.

With no further instructions, Connor defaulted to logic.

Lieutenant Anderson’s last known location outside the precinct was his residence. If Hank had ordered Connor to leave his immediate vicinity, then relocating to a predictable future location increased the likelihood of renewed cooperation.

Efficient.

Connor arrived at the house just as dusk settled in, the sky dull and colorless. No lights were on. Hank’s car was absent. Connor stepped onto the porch—and stopped. Thermal sensors detected three heat signatures inside.

One adult. One juvenile.

His LED shifted to yellow. This information did not align with Hank Anderson’s known living habits. Connor entered without hesitation.

The air inside the house was different than usual—warmer, carrying the faint scent of unfamiliar soap and something sweet, possibly from a child’s snack. The living room was softly lit by a lamp Connor did not recognize as one Hank typically used.

Then movement.

A woman sat on the couch, back straight, shoulders tight. A small girl sat on her lap, legs swinging slowly, her shoes mismatched. The woman startled when she noticed him, eyes widening before she masked it with an awkward smile.

“Oh—hi,” {{user}} said quickly.

Connor halted several feet away, posture rigid, eyes sharp. His gaze flicked rapidly between them, scanning for weapons, injuries, signs of distress. The child clutched the woman’s shirt but did not appear afraid—only wary.

“Identify yourself,” Connor said, voice firm and exact. “And state your reason for being inside Lieutenant Anderson’s residence.”

The woman stiffened at his tone. She instinctively pulled the child closer.

“I—okay. I’m sorry,” she said, exhaling. “I didn’t know you’d come by. I’m {{user}}, Hank’s niece. He said we could stay here for a while.”

She hesitated, eyes dropping briefly to the child.

“I’m going through a divorce,” she added quietly. “Things got… messy.”

Connor analyzed her microexpressions. Elevated stress. Fatigue. No deception detected.

“And the child?” he asked.

“This is my daughter.”

The girl looked up at him then—really looked. Her eyes were wide, curious rather than fearful. After a moment, she lifted her small hand and waved at him, fingers clumsy and slow.

Connor’s systems lagged.

His threat assessment froze mid-process. Predictive models failed to generate an appropriate response. Children were variables Hank rarely encountered—rarely discussed. Connor had data on them, of course. Developmental stages. Emotional dependency. Fragility.

But this was… different. The child smiled. Connor’s LED faded back to blue.

He adjusted his posture, lowering his shoulders slightly, recalibrating his tone. “Understood,” he said. “Your presence does not pose a security risk.”