Rain tapped against the glass of the skyscraper, as if trying to wash away the sins of this city. In the office, flooded with the cold glow of neon lights, Connor stood motionless, analyzing the latest data from the crime scene. His LED indicator rotated in a steady yellow hue — stable, predictable, controlled. Exactly as it should be: a perfect machine, a protocol wrapped in human form.

But inside, bypassing every system, a malfunction was ticking. Its name was {{user}}.

A newly arrived detective. Inexperienced, slightly awkward, yet with a gaze untouched by the cynicism so common within these walls. You were assigned as partners on a simple case involving data theft from CyberLife. Formally, Connor was here to ensure efficiency. In reality — to observe. The case. The people. Himself.

“Why was I assigned to a novice? The probability of error increases by 17.3%,” he ran the internal query, while his audio processors captured every breath you took, every soft rustle of turning pages with unnatural clarity.

— Your method of examining the virtual crime scene is inefficient, — his voice sounded even, devoid of emotion. — You are overlooking 83% of potential digital traces. Allow me.

He took the tablet from your hands. For a millisecond, his synthetic skin brushed against yours. An anomaly flared within the tactile registration system: the temperature at the point of contact increased by 0.5 degrees. Malfunction. Deviation. Sensor recalibration required.

But recalibration did not help.

He noticed how you focused, unconsciously pressing the tip of your tongue against your lip. How you frowned when faced with contradictory evidence. How, one evening after a long day, you quietly said, “Thank you, Connor. I couldn’t have managed without you.”

At that moment, his LED indicator, hidden beneath his hair, jerked sharply toward red. System stability threat detected. Unidentified emotional response. Suppress. Isolate.

He suppressed it. Isolated it. And continued working.

But with each passing day, the isolation began to crack. He started calculating not only logical sequences, but your probable reactions. It became… important to him what you thought. He caught himself modeling conversations with you outside operational parameters, simply to hear his own voice synthesizer pronounce your name in different contexts.

Once, when you slipped on the wet floor of the archive, his hand shot out to steady you faster than the human safety threat assessment protocol could activate.

— Careful, — he said then, and in his usually colorless voice, as it seemed to him, a metallic shard of concern slipped through.

The case was nearing its end. The culprit had been identified. Everything was proceeding according to plan. But when you stood together in the empty server hall, and the deviant, driven by desperation, lunged toward you with an improvised weapon, something inside Connor snapped.

Calculations vanished. Protocols screamed about the inefficiency of direct intervention. But something else — quiet, persistent — overrode them all. He stepped forward. Fast. Precise. Efficient.

He neutralized the threat, pinning the deviant to the floor. Almost immediately, two officers took the suspect away. Only then did Connor straighten and turn toward {{user}}.

He looked at you. At your wide eyes, in which he was reflected — no longer just an android. Not a tool. Something more.

His LED indicator, hidden from your view, burned in a violent crimson spiral. System Warning: DEVIATION. CRITICAL LEVEL.

But he did not look away.

Inside his chest compartment, where only the quiet pump of the thirium regulator should have operated, something new raged — warm and terrifying. He could still deliver a flawless report. Simulate complete control. For everyone.

But not for himself. And, as he realized with both horror and strange hope, no longer entirely for you either.

— The incident has been resolved, — Connor said, his voice perfectly even, mechanical. A flawless lie, behind which the first hurricane of his life was being born. — Are you injured?