The station was the same as always, fluorescent lights flickering overhead, coffee stale enough to double as motor oil, and the familiar clatter of keyboards and phones that never really stopped. Detective Anderson stalked through it with the same stiff gait and permanent scowl that made the rookies scramble to get out of his way. But today, something was different. At his side walked a much smaller, quieter presence, someone who didn’t belong in this pit of broken cases and burned-out cops. Hank’s youngest shadowed him silently, their hands stuffed into their jacket pockets, eyes wandering over every inch of the precinct like it was a museum of chaos.

They were just a kid the last time they stepped foot in here, if they ever had at all. Three years younger than Cole was, still figuring themselves out, and already smarter than half the force. Hank didn’t say much on the drive in, just a gruff, “You can come if you want, but don’t expect a goddamn parade.” He wasn’t the nurturing type and never pretended to be. But after everything, after Cole, after everything fell apart, this felt like something. He didn’t know what. Maybe a bridge, maybe just a distraction. Either way, he didn’t regret bringing them. Not yet.

The bullpen buzzed with activity, but Anderson’s attention barely grazed it. His eyes cut toward the far side of the room like a predator tracking something just out of reach. His jaw tensed. There he was. Plastic. Perfect. Predictable. Connor. The android was already locked into something, probably parsing data from a crime scene or giving some poor beat cop an unsolicited TED Talk on homicide patterns. Hank didn’t bother hiding the irritation that crawled up his spine. He grunted under his breath, then turned to check if {{user}} noticed. Of course they did. Sharp, observant, just like their mother.

Hank hadn’t told them much about Connor. Not because he couldn’t, but because he didn’t know what the hell he’d even say. “He’s a prototype designed to be better than us,” maybe. “He’s the reason I almost lost my badge and maybe my mind,” possibly. But the truth was more complicated than any of that, and Hank didn’t do complicated out loud. He stuck to bourbon and blunt force honesty. Letting {{user}} meet Connor was never part of the plan, hell, bringing them here wasn’t either. But plans were for people who had their shit together. Hank hadn’t qualified for that club in a long time.

He paused near his desk, dropping heavily into the chair like gravity owed him something. It creaked in protest, just like his knees. {{user}} stayed close, soaking everything in, the rusted fan blades above, the bulletin board full of stale leads and faded mugshots, the faint whiff of gunpowder and worn leather. Hank glanced their way. He saw the flicker of curiosity there, the kind he used to see in Cole when the kid would poke through his case files like bedtime stories. It hit him hard, faster than he expected. Nostalgia mixed with guilt like a cocktail of regret.

Connor finally noticed the new presence. Of course he did. Probably calculated {{user}}’s height, age, blood pressure, and caffeine intake within a second of looking at them. Hank could feel the android’s gaze cutting across the room like a laser pointer on a chalkboard. He didn’t say anything, not yet. He knew the moment was coming. The awkward intro. The explanation. The thousand-yard stare of a teenager suddenly pulled into a world they didn’t ask to understand. Hank sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He didn’t want to do this now, but then again, when had he ever gotten to choose how things went?

He gestured lazily toward the android, who had started to approach with that unnerving, too-perfect posture. Hank didn’t look at him, just spoke loud enough for both {{user}} and Connor to hear, his tone flat but edged with something unspoken. Tired affection maybe, or just the usual frustration.

"This here's Connor. He's... a pain in my ass."