The sky over Detroit had already begun to gray when {{user}} and Connor entered the abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. The cold air smelled of dampness, rust, and something alien. Tension hung thick, almost ringing louder than the silence itself. Connor walked beside them: even, measured steps, focused gaze. His voice was quiet as he analyzed the traces, but even in that grave silence, he seemed too alive for a machine.

“Trail is fresh. Deviant nearby,” he said dryly, stopping at the open metal door.

{{user}} only nodded. Something pulsed steadily in their chest and it wasn’t fear. No, it was something sharper, carved from pain and resolve. Their younger sister was there. And every second slipping by took time with it.

The corridor stretched on, seemingly endless, oppressive, and stifling. Connor reported in short phrases, evaluating every detail: “Two sets of footsteps. One light. The other resisted.”

They listened, but their thoughts still raced ahead. Toward the place where this darkness would end. At one point, they almost wished they could just close their eyes and wake up. As if this were only a bad dream.

The door was the last barrier. Connor raised his hand, warning, but {{user}} did not wait. They pushed it open themselves.

The room greeted them with dim, painful light. The deviant stood in the center, holding their sister too thin, too small, trembling in his hands. He muttered to himself; fragments of words were swallowed by his ragged breathing. A red, anxious pulse flickered in his eye, as if he truly regretted what he had done. And for a moment, {{user}} thought their sister had breathed. So… there was still a chance.

Connor stepped forward, calm as ever: “Release the hostage. You don’t have to cause harm. I can help.”

The deviant twitched. There was despair in his movements, too human to ignore. He looked at {{user}} and, as if making a decision, suddenly shoved their sister away. Too hard. She hit the wall to the right, so sharply that the sound split the air. Too quiet. Too fast. Her body slid down, leaving a bloody streak on the wall. The red stain spread across the floor, and from that alone, it was clear: there was no chance left.

The world around narrowed, tight, like a string about to snap. {{user}} barely heard Connor speak their name concerned, but still steady. The deviant stepped back, seemingly realizing what had happened, but no trace of regret or doubt passed over his face. Only emptiness. As if that had been his intent all along.

The shot rang out from the silence, almost imperceptibly not a crash, but the snap of a thin string the world had stretched too long. The air seemed to shiver first, and the sound merely followed, catching up to what had occurred.

The muzzle flared in a brief flash. The deviant froze for a moment, as if he didn’t immediately realize what had happened. Blue blood cut through the air in thin streams, like spilled ink on a pristine canvas. The second shot came almost gently, like a period placed where the story had reached its end. It threw the deviant backward; he fell, barely making a sound as he hit the floor, as if he had just lost something greater than the function of his systems the very illusion of life itself.

Droplets of blue blood slowly ran down {{user}}’s boots, pooling into thick, sticky trails. The room seemed to exhale. And with that exhale came a silence so dense that even the echo dared not break it.