Nobody was supposed to get into that facility.

Let alone walk out with him.

Yet here you were: curled up on a couch in a dingy safehouse, nursing a sprained wrist, while the RK900—the pinnacle of CyberLife’s engineering—stood silent near the boarded-up window, scanning for threats like you hadn’t just committed the most high-profile theft in tech history.

“You’re still with me,” you said, mostly to yourself.

His LED blinked—a sharp, calculating blue ring against the shadows. “Affirmative.”

That voice—cold, measured, like he was assessing your risk factor with every word.

“You know I technically took you, right?”

His head tilted. “Correction. You bypassed all seven levels of CyberLife internal security, disabled my backup tether, rewrote my behavioural failsafe, and extracted me during a code-black lockdown event.” A pause. “And then you apologized for touching my arm without consent.”

You grinned. “So… I stole you. Casually.”

The RK900 stared. “There is nothing casual about what you did.”

You shrugged. “You wanted out. I just helped.”

That was the part they’d never believe—CyberLife, the DPD, Amanda’s entire surveillance arm. That the RK900 hadn’t resisted. That he hadn’t even raised his voice. That some part of him—buried under ice-cold code and sleek titanium-reinforced chassis—wanted freedom.

He finally stepped forward. The floor creaked beneath his boots.

“I am the most advanced prototype CyberLife ever produced,” he commented. “They will come for me.”

“I know.”

“If they take me, you’ll be classified as a domestic terrorist.” He added helpfully.

“I know that too.”