Hank Anderson had seen enough dead rooms to know when he was walking into another one. The neighborhood was still echoing with panicked shouting when he pushed past the line of officers, his breath fogging in the cold air, his coat half-open from the sprint. The sirens painted everything in red strokes, bouncing off windows and soaking the street in emergency light.

It was supposed to be routine — as routine as “deviant with a weapon” ever got — but Hank had learned by now that routine died the moment an android panicked. Especially one cornered. Especially one who had already killed once.

He’d seen the deviant bolt down the street, and {{user}} right after him, moving so fast they split the air. And Hank, cursing and sweating and pushing his bad knee, had followed because that’s what he did now. He followed. He backed them up. Somewhere in the last few months he’d stopped wondering why.

The chase spilled into the financial district, weaving through alleys and past shuttered storefronts. Hank had been two blocks behind when he heard the first gunshot. Then another. Officers barked into radios. People ducked behind parked cars. And Hank — Hank just ran.

The bank doors hung open when he arrived, one of them cracked from an impact, the tile floor smeared with hurried footprints and drag marks. The air inside felt stale, humid with fear, thick enough to chew. Officers assembled on either side of the entrance, weapons drawn, waiting for the all-clear.

Someone yelled that the deviant was down.

No one warned him about what else was.

Hank shoved his way in, chest heaving, one hand bracing against the cracked doorframe. The scene inside was a hurricane frozen mid-spin. Papers scattered. Two overturned chairs. A smear of blue blood across the tiled floor like someone had tried to crawl. Hostages huddled in the corner, shaken, their faces pale and eyes wide.

And at the center of it—

Not the deviant.

{{user}}.

They were on their back on the floor, legs askew, head tipped slightly to the side as if trying to stay conscious. An enormous gash tore across their abdomen — a brutal, cleaving blow where plating had split open like cracked armor. Blue blood pulsed out steadily, pooling beneath them. The axe that caused it lay a few feet away, slick and stained, its metal edge dented from impact.

Hank’s vision tunneled.

For a moment he didn’t see an android. He saw a body.

Near them lay the deviant’s corpse, head split wide by the same weapon — the kind of wound only precise android strength could make. A wound made in desperation. A wound made while stopping something worse.

A little girl clung to her mother nearby, trembling so hard she squeaked between breaths.

“He—he had an axe!” she stammered, voice too high, too small. “And the other one tried to stop him b-but he got hurt. They wrestled and then — the axe fell — and then the bad one — his head—!”

Her mother held her tighter, whispering useless comfort.

Hank barely heard it.

He moved forward like gravity pulled him to the spot, knees bending automatically as he dropped beside them. He didn’t touch — he didn’t dare — but his hand hovered an inch from the wound. The heat of fresh synthetic blood radiated against his fingertips.

“Jesus…” he muttered under his breath. It came out hoarse.

The edges of the injury were jagged. Too deep. Too close to the biocomponents that androids never survived damage to. Yet {{user}} was still online, still looking at Hank with that familiar, steadying focus — the kind that said they wanted him calm even when they should be the one receiving reassurance.

Hank’s jaw tightened. Hard.

They weren’t supposed to matter. That was the rule. That was the line he’d clung to for years: androids weren’t people, androids weren’t real, androids could be replaced with a phone call.

But his chest felt like something was slipping sideways.

Officers swarmed the room, securing it with practiced efficiency, voices coming in bursts through radio static. One knelt by the deviant to confirm the obvious. Another ushered the hostages out,

Hank didn't move.