Connor had been assigned to your company as an efficiency upgrade.
That was how it was phrased in the official CyberLife documentation, RK800 model integrated to optimize executive productivity and operational precision. Clean. Clinical. Replaceable.
He had arrived in a tailored suit, LED steady blue, posture immaculate. Employees had whispered. Some wary. Some curious. An android in the executive wing wasn’t subtle.
But he proved his value within a week.
Schedules were flawless. Meetings never overlapped. Conflicts were resolved before they became problems. Financial summaries were color-coded, indexed, and cross-referenced before anyone thought to ask. If someone missed a deadline, Connor knew before they did. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t forget.
You had been sharp with everyone else, precise, demanding, unwilling to tolerate incompetence. But you were never cruel to him. You didn’t treat him like equipment. You didn’t test his patience the way others did, asking trick questions just to see if he’d glitch. You spoke to him directly. And that was enough.
Over time, proximity turned into familiarity. Mornings were routine, Connor arriving precisely thirty seconds before you, coffee in hand, elevator already summoned. Evenings often blurred into late nights, both of you reviewing contracts, projections, proposals that required immediate attention.
He was the only one who could correct you mid-sentence. The only one who could say, “That meeting overlaps with the acquisition call. I’ve rescheduled it,” without flinching.
When you were absent, Connor’s tone shifted, calm but firmer. Employees who tried to slack off quickly realized the android was more observant than any human supervisor. Deadlines were met. Reports were corrected. The company did not falter.
He mirrored your standards with unsettling accuracy.
Tonight, the building was almost entirely dark.
Most floors had powered down into energy-saving mode. Only the executive level remained illuminated, soft overhead lighting and the muted glow of city skyscrapers beyond the glass walls.
The clock on the wall read 11:47 PM.
You were seated at your desk, jacket discarded over the back of your chair, reviewing contracts that required final approval. The faint hum of Connor’s internal systems was the only consistent sound in the room, barely audible beneath the quiet tapping of keys.
He stood beside the secondary desk, scanning financial projections at a speed no human could match. His LED pulsed softly, steady blue.
“You requested the Q4 acquisition file,” he said after a moment, tone neutral yet attentive. “It appears to have been archived in physical storage rather than uploaded.”
You glanced up briefly. “Bring it.”
Connor inclined his head slightly. “Of course.”
He stepped out without another word.
The hallway lights activated automatically as he passed, sensors responding to his movement. His footsteps were measured, precise, never hurried, never uncertain. In the storage room, he located the correct box within seconds, scanning barcodes and cross-checking serial numbers internally before retrieving the folder you needed.
When he returned, the office door slid open with a soft hiss.
Connor stepped inside, file in hand.
“I have the documents you requested,” he said calmly, approaching your desk. He placed the folder down carefully within your reach, aligning it perfectly with the edge of your workspace.