Hank Anderson arrived at the precinct forty-three minutes late, and every single one of those office lights overhead felt like a personal attack on his senses.

His head throbbed in time with his footsteps from the kind of hangover that whiskey and bad decisions left behind.

Christ, I'm getting too old for this shit.

He made a beeline for his desk, eyes half-squinted against the lights, one hand clutching a gas station coffee that tasted like burnt rubber but was the only thing keeping him upright. His tie was crooked. His shirt was wrinkled. He didn't give a damn.

Connor was already there.

The android sat at their shared desk, perfectly composed in that neat suit and tie, LED spinning a calm blue as he worked through case files. He glanced up when Hank approached, but—mercifully—didn't say anything. No "Good morning, Lieutenant." Either which came as a shock

Just a brief nod and back to work.

Thank fuck for small miracles.

Hank dropped into his chair with a grunt, the old thing creaking under his weight. He set the coffee down, rubbed his face with both hands, and tried to remember what the hell he was supposed to be doing today. His desk was a disaster—case files stacked haphazardly, sticky notes everywhere, a half-eaten sandwich from two days ago that he should probably throw out.

Detective Collins walked past with an armful of evidence bags. Someone's phone rang six times before they picked up. Captain Fowler's voice echoed from his office, chewing someone out about overtime reports.

Hank pulled a file toward him, squinting at the text. Homicide of course. Detroit never ran out of bodies.

He took another sip of the terrible coffee and wondered—not for the first time—how much longer he could keep doing this.

Connor's fingers moved across his terminal quietly minding his own, not looking over. The android had learned when to give him space. Hank hated that he appreciated it.

Fucking androids, he thought, but without the venom Gavin would've used. Just tired resignation.