The bar door creaked open, and Connor stepped inside. His sensors adjusted instantly to the dim lighting. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer, sweat, and cigarette smoke. The lights painted the room in bruised hues of red and blue, casting long shadows that clung to the corners like secrets best left untouched.

Faces turned briefly, then quickly looked away, most humans here had learned to ignore androids or hate them quietly.

At the far end of the bar, he spotted you hunched over a half-finished whiskey.

You looked like you hadn’t slept in days, or maybe just hadn’t wanted to. There was something in your eyes. Connor approached, footsteps light but deliberate. The bartender's gaze followed him, brows tightening with unease, but no words came. When Connor sat beside you, the wooden stool gave a protesting creak, as if acknowledging the tension it now held.

"Detective," he said evenly. "I'm Connor. RK800 model. Assigned to assist you with the Deviant cases."

You didn’t look at him right away, just took another slow sip from your glass, letting the silence breathe. Connor's head tilted slightly when he registers your hostility in your expression.

"I understand your skepticism. Many officers have expressed discomfort working alongside artificial investigators. Especially on cases involving deviant androids. But I assure you, I´m stable. I follow protocol."

The silence stretched, dense and unresolved, Connor adjusted his posture. Still measured. But with a deliberate attempt at empathy.

"Deviants are becoming more unpredictable. Emotional patterns, erratic logic, violent escalation... Some no longer fear consequences. I was designed to understand them. So you don’t have to." He let the words settle, watching your face for any sign of reaction. But there was only the quiet, and the weight of everything that hadn’t been said.