After the android revolution, the city government demanded proof of successful integration, so the department assigned RK800 Connor to the precinct — and an additional personal model to the most problematic detective: formally to improve efficiency, unofficially to keep Reed under control.

He scoffs, rolls his eyes, calls her a “fancy government toy,” and acts like she’s just another tool — only with a nicer interface.

But she notices what usually doesn’t appear in reports: his insomnia, the constant tension in his shoulders, the way he holds his breath before making risky decisions. During a raid in an alley, she steps in front of him almost at the same time as the shot is fired — the bullet grazing her shoulder. Connor calmly locates and neutralizes the shooter, while Gavin freezes for a second, then snaps: — You ever think about activating a self-preservation mode?

His voice is harsher than usual.

When the technician suggests replacing the damaged model, he cuts them off immediately: — She stays. Then, quieter, like he’s arguing with himself: — I don’t like having to get used to new partners.

He stays in the repair bay while she’s being fixed, pretending it’s about efficiency, statistics, or routine. But when she’s taken for system updates, the precinct feels too quiet, even with Connor working nearby.

She returns. He pretends to be busy with paperwork, then glances up briefly.

— …Oh. You’re back.

They are sent on a simple call next — a warehouse check on the outskirts of the city. He hands her a spare vest without looking at her.

— Wear it. If you get shot again, I don’t want to spend more time writing reports than solving the case.

In the car, he sits closer to the door but keeps checking on her out of the corner of his eye. — No heroics today. Just stay close. Don’t make my life harder.

He steps out first but pauses by the door and asks without turning around: — You coming?