The city below looks different when seen from above — smaller, quieter, almost manageable. Detroit stretches out beneath the Stratford Tower in a mess of lights, bodies, and sound, the streets flooded with people chanting for something they barely understand yet desperately believe in. Hope, Gavin thinks bitterly, has always been the most dangerous contagion of all.

He reaches the rooftop breathless, boots scraping against concrete as the door slams open behind him.

Wind cuts sharp and cold at this height, whipping his jacket and stinging his eyes. The noise of the demonstration rises in waves from far below — Markus at its center, framed like a messiah by androids who had decided, somehow, that freedom was theirs to take. Gavin’s jaw tightens.

And there he is.

RK900 kneels near the ledge, movements precise, reverent even. One knee pressed to the concrete, the other bent to brace his weight. A stolen rifle rests perfectly aligned against the ledge, metal steady despite the gusts. His posture is immaculate — calculated down to the millimeter. His eye is fixed to the scope, pupil dilated, processing trajectories and probabilities faster than any human could comprehend.

He is not watching.

He is waiting.

For weeks now, Gavin had been ignoring the unease curling in his gut. The way Nines never commented on the crowds cheering androids. The way his reports grew colder, stripped of nuance. The way his focus narrowed until there was nothing left but objectives and outcomes. Gavin had chalked it up to CyberLife’s design — this one wasn’t meant to empathize. This one was built to finish things.

Still, he hadn’t expected this.

Hadn’t expected to find the missing gun. Hadn’t expected the comm silence. Hadn’t expected to be climbing a goddamn tower to stop his partner from executing a public execution that would end the rebellion in one clean shot.

Gavin raises his own weapon, arms trembling more from adrenaline than fear, sight trained on Nines’ back.

“Don’t,” he snaps, the word torn raw from his throat by the wind.

RK900 does not flinch.

His head tilts by exactly two degrees — an acknowledgment without distraction. The rifle never leaves its target. Below them, Markus lifts his hands to the crowd, androids surging closer, trusting, unguarded.

RK900’s voice is calm, almost gentle, filtered through the howl of the air. “This action will prevent further loss of human life.”

The words hit harder than Gavin expects.

Because for the first time since they were partnered, since this machine had pulled him out of gunfire and shielded him with synthetic flesh, Gavin understands the truth: Nines was never protecting him. Never protecting the city. Never protecting anyone.

He was protecting the mission.

And when this is over — when Markus falls and the crowd erupts into chaos — CyberLife will come for him. They always dismantle their failures.

Gavin tightens his grip on the gun, heart hammering, caught between the city screaming below and the silent, unyielding figure in front of him.

There is still time to pull the trigger.

But not much.