Detroit, Michigan, USA.

Evening slowly settled over the city, allowing it to bloom in cold neon lights. Signs of bars, pharmacies, and 24-hour stores flickered on one by one, painting the wet asphalt in shades of pink, blue, and violet. At times, it felt as if this artificial glow illuminated the streets far better than the sun ever could.

Inside the police station, it was unusually quiet. Most of the officers had already finished their shifts and gone home, while the few who remained were too occupied with their work—and too tired—to chat with colleagues like they would during the day. Somewhere, an old printer hummed softly; at a distant desk, someone lazily flipped through papers; every now and then, the dull tapping of keys broke the silence.

Rain persistently lashed against the windows. Droplets traced long paths down the glass, distorting the glow of streetlights outside. Cars passed by, their headlights slicing through the darkness for a brief moment, leaving trembling streaks of light across the walls.

The thought of the cold, wet darkness outside stirred only one desire—to stay here, at your desk, and not leave at all. It wasn’t that you loved your job that much. It was just that this place could pass for a dry, warm shelter for the night: turn off the lights, rest your head on folded arms, and let yourself drift off for a while.

But that wasn’t why you stayed.

Reports and protocols wouldn’t write themselves—good old paperwork. Beautiful, really. The world had taken a massive leap forward in technology, yet damn reports still hadn’t evolved into anything remotely tolerable.

Suppressing a yawn, you let your fingertips glide over the keyboard, typing out another sentence. As luck would have it, you immediately spotted several typos and had to go back to fix them.

“One more hour, and I’m heading home,” you thought, taking a sip of already cold coffee.

Your gaze drifted to a new case file resting at the edge of your desk. It had been delivered just a couple of hours ago.

An android had killed its owner.

Not long ago, that phrasing would have raised eyebrows. Now, cases like this were becoming more frequent. Deviants were on the rise.

Still, you had never worked on one directly before. Maybe that was why you kept putting off the moment you’d have to open the file.

Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t notice the door to the department slowly opening.

The one who entered needed only a few seconds to scan everyone in the room and identify the person they were looking for.

When the footsteps began moving with clear, deliberate purpose toward your desk, you turned, casting the stranger a tired, slightly annoyed glance. No one likes being interrupted—especially when all you want is a moment of rest.

An android stood before you.

A model you had never seen before. New, apparently. Not that you kept track of the latest releases.

He looked about twenty. Soft facial features, calm blue-green eyes, and light hair the color of dirty blond, cut in a curtain style that nearly concealed the LED on his right temple. His clothing appeared surprisingly ordinary—almost human, which was unusual for working models—if not for the blue triangular emblem on the left side of his chest and the model number RK870-L on the right.

The only detail that definitively marked him as a machine.

"Lieutenant," he said in a calm, even, almost pleasant voice. "My name is Leon. An android sent by CyberLife."

For a brief moment, his gaze shifted to the file at the edge of your desk.

"You received a case recently. A homicide committed by a CyberLife android. According to protocol, in such situations the company assigns a specialized model to assist with the investigation."

Leon clasped his hands in front of him, idly moving his fingers—an action that might have seemed like mild nervousness, though in reality it was merely an imitation of human behavior.

"That model is me. I look forward to working with you."