Leon stepped through the front door, shoulders heavy from another long debrief at DSO headquarters. The apartment smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and the coffee {{user}} always had ready by the time Leon's boots hit the mat—perfect, as always. The place was spotless: counters gleaming, laundry folded, even the throw pillows on the couch arranged just so. But the usual soft hum of {{user}}'s presence—the quiet whir of servos as he moved room to room, the gentle "Welcome home, Leon" in that calm, measured voice—was gone.

Too quiet.

Leon dropped his jacket on the hook, frowning. "{{user}}?"

No answer.

His eyes caught it then: a thin trail of vivid blue thirium streaking across the hardwood floor from the living room toward the hallway. Android blood. Fresh.

Heart slamming into overdrive, Leon drew his sidearm on instinct, sweeping the room. "{{user}}!"

The trail led to the kitchen doorway. There, on the tile, sat {{user}}—model designation something sleek and domestic-advanced, but to Leon he was just {{user}}. A frame folded neatly despite the damage, one hand pressing a folded towel to his left thigh where synthetic skin had torn open in ragged strips. Blue fluid seeped steadily; the bite marks were unmistakable—deep, jagged, canine.

Beside him, Leon's German Shepherd mix (the one he'd rescued from a bad shelter case years back) lay contentedly chewing a rawhide bone, tail thumping once in greeting. Oblivious. Happy.

Leon holstered the gun in a rush, dropping to his knees. "What the hell happened?"

{{user}} looked up, LED at his temple cycling slow blue—calm, analytical. No panic, no accusation. "The dog became overexcited during play. Misjudged force. I disengaged aggression protocols to avoid escalation." His voice was even, almost serene. "No permanent structural failure. Repairs are feasible."

Leon stared. The dog had nearly torn his leg off, and {{user}} had just... let it happen? Indulged the animal rather than defend himself? Because hurting the dog would have upset Leon.

"Jesus, {{user}}." Leon's hands hovered, unsure where to start. He reached out, gently prying {{user}}'s bloodied fingers away to assess the wound—torn biocomponents exposed, hydraulic lines nicked but not severed. "You're bleeding out thirium all over the floor and you're acting like it's a scratch."

Before {{user}} could reply, Leon exhaled sharply.

"Stay put," he muttered, already moving. He grabbed the toolkit from under the sink—the one stocked with thirium patches, sealant gel, spare biocomponent connectors, everything CyberLife had shipped for "home maintenance." His hands shook as he knelt again, unpacking supplies with more force than necessary.