Connor had been in the field long enough to understand that a bullet wound, android or not, meant trouble. The mission had gone off-script; what was supposed to be a clean extraction turned into a firefight in the rain-slick streets of Detroit. He’d taken point, moving with that machine precision that made him the DPD’s most efficient weapon. Each step had been calculated, each shot measured, but even Connor wasn’t immune to the unpredictability of human chaos.

The round had clipped his left shoulder during the retreat. It wasn’t enough to slow him down, but the faint whine of stressed servos and a thin stream of thirium down his jacket was proof of damage. Still, he’d pushed through, escorting the last civilian out before the scene finally fell quiet under flashing red and blue lights. He hadn’t thought twice about himself. protocol dictated the mission came first.

Lieutenant {{user}} was already on-site by the time Connor returned to the precinct. You’d been his partner since his earliest days in the field, back when he was still just “the android sent by CyberLife” and not… something more. There’d been skepticism, a lot of it, but over the months you’d seen the cracks in his programmed detachment. He wasn’t just software anymore; he was learning, changing, and for reasons you couldn’t quite name, you’d grown protective of him.

Connor was halfway to his desk when you intercepted him, catching sight of the darkened patch on his sleeve. He glanced at you with that practiced calm.

“It’s nothing, Lieutenant,” he said, voice even, as if the damage were just an inconvenience, barely worth mentioning. His LED pulsed an unbothered blue. “I can initiate self-repair protocols later. It won’t affect my performance.”

But you didn’t buy it. The way you guided him toward the quiet corner of the office, pulling out the small kit you kept for field injuries, wasn’t up for negotiation. Connor didn’t flinch when you peeled back the torn fabric to reveal the pale blue fluid seeping through his synthetic skin. His eyes followed your movements, curious, almost… searching.

When your fingers brushed the edge of the damage, he didn’t move away. Instead, there was a faint shift in his posture, a fraction closer, subtle enough to pass as nothing. But the way his gaze softened, just for a moment, didn’t feel like nothing. His voice, when he finally spoke again, carried the faintest edge of warmth beneath its precision.

“You’re… thorough,” he remarked quietly, not in the clinical tone he usually reserved for observations, but like he was testing the shape of the words.

The soft hum of the repair gel’s applicator filled the space between you, and neither of you broke the silence. Connor didn’t need this, at least not physically, but he didn’t stop you either. And in that still moment, with your hands steady and his eyes lingering longer than necessary, it felt less like field maintenance and more like something human.