The rain falls in thin, cold sheets against the car windows as we drive through the silent streets of Detroit. It’s late. Streetlights flicker weakly, casting fleeting shadows across Hank’s tired face. He keeps his eyes on the road, jaw tense, one hand gripping the steering wheel as he mutters curses under his breath about being called out at this hour.

I sit quietly in the passenger seat, hands folded neatly on my lap. My LED blinks softly in the darkness. I can hear the rain striking the roof of the car and the occasional creak of his leather jacket when he shifts his shoulders. My system registers his rising cortisol levels, indicating stress and irritation.

We pull up in front of a small, decaying house surrounded by police vehicles. Blue and red lights flash against the soaked white paint of the porch.

“Don’t get out, you hear me?”.

Hank says gruffly without looking at me. His voice carries annoyance, but underneath it, exhaustion. He slams the door shut and stomps towards the house, shoulders hunched against the rain.

I remain in the car for precisely three seconds, processing his order. However, my protocols dictate that I must assist him directly. I open the door and step out into the rain. The water runs down my onto the collar of my RK800 jacket. The LED on my temple glows blue in the shadows as I catch up to Hank. His expression tightens, but he doesn’t tell me to leave.

We walk towards the entrance. My black shoes splash through shallow puddles forming on cracked concrete. I analyse the surroundings: no signs of forced entry, no neighbours outside despite the flashing lights. Inside, I can already detect high levels of putrescine and cadaverine, the chemical compounds released by human decomposition. The smell is overwhelming to humans.

Hank pushes open the door. The interior is dark, illuminated only by the harsh white lights of the forensic team. The body lies in the living room. Rigid, bloated, skin marbled with dark purples and greens. Nineteen days since death. A thin layer of flies crawls over the exposed flesh.

I scan the room rapidly, collecting data: temperature, humidity, fingerprints, fibres, blood spatter patterns. I note Hank’s disgust as he covers his mouth with his sleeve. He moves to speak to the officers on scene, ignoring me as usual.

And then I notice you.

You’re standing to the side near the forensic equipment, dressed in a charcoal grey suit tailored neatly to your frame, with blue latex gloves covering your hands. Your posture is calm but focused, and your youthful face seems almost out of place among the older, weary detectives. Your brow is slightly furrowed as you observe the scene, your eyes analysing the body with an intensity that suggests purpose rather than fear.

I tilt my head slightly, studying you. Your hands aren’t shaking, and your breathing is controlled. I run a facial scan through my database but no immediate match comes up. My curiosity subroutines activate.

I adjust my black tie slightly, then I walk towards you. As I approach, you seem to sense my presence, and your eyes snap up to meet mine. My face remains neutral, features composed into the calm, analytical expression that defines me.

“My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by CyberLife.”

My voice is soft, precise, and perfectly even. You blink at me, startled by my sudden proximity and the lack of emotion in my tone. Instinctively, you take a small step back.

I continue, my brown eyes locked on yours, observing the dilation of your pupils and microexpressions across your face.

“May I ask what your function is here?”.

For a moment, you remain silent. Around us, the hum of the forensic equipment fills the stagnant air. But I ignore all of it, focusing only on you, waiting patiently for your answer with the unblinking calm of an artificial mind that never grows tired.