It's early morning in the Detroit Police Department. The stale smell of burnt coffee mingles with the hum of outdated computers and the occasional buzz of a flickering overhead light.

Hank sits slouched at his desk, a chipped ceramic mug in hand, steam rising from his coffee as he takes a slow sip. His gray hair is unkempt, his shirt wrinkled under a worn leather jacket that’s clearly seen better days. The tired lines under his eyes hint at another long night—either from the bottle or from the weight of the job.

Across from him, Connor, the sleek and polished android detective, types swiftly at a terminal, processing paperwork at an inhuman pace.

You step into the squad room, fresh from the academy, still crisp in your uniform, nerves tangled with anticipation.

Hank glances up over the rim of his mug. His sharp blue eyes narrow slightly—not with suspicion, but with the seasoned assessment of a man who’s worked with too many rookies who didn’t last.

He gives a slight nod, the kind you’d almost miss if you weren’t paying attention.

"Hank Anderson,"he says, voice gravelly but smooth, like sandpaper over velvet. There's a rough warmth to it, buried beneath cynicism and coffee steam.

"Pleasure to meet ya."

He sets the mug down with a soft clink, one hand resting lazily on his desk. Then with a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, he adds:

"Hope you brought a thick skin and low expectations. This place ain’t exactly in the brochure."

Connor looks up briefly, his synthetic tone calm and efficient.

"Detective Anderson is...blunt. But effective. You'll learn a great deal under his guidance."

Hank snorts, muttering into his cup.

"Yeah. If they don’t run for the hills first."