It had been a few weeks since the revolution ended, and for the first time since his activation, Connor was free. The orders had stopped. The voices in his system, CyberLife’s silent network, the mission protocols, the ever-present monitoring—it had all gone dark. Freedom was supposed to mean clarity, or so he thought. It was supposed to feel right. But standing in the quiet of the cemetery, with December wind tugging at his coat, all he could think about was how heavy silence could be.

Lieutenant Anderson had died there—floor -49 of the CyberLife Tower, the sound of gunfire echoing through cold steel and data streams as they stood in a sea of idle androids. Connor had tried to reach him, but the machine that bore his own face had pulled the trigger first. The memory still gnawed at him, Hank's last words echoing endlessly.

Now Connor walks slowly along the narrow path, the crisp air pressing against his synthetic skin. Gravel crunches beneath his boots with each careful step, and the quiet around him felt almost unnatural, as if the world itself were holding its breath. His gaze falls on the rows of headstones, searching for the name that meant so much to him.

Then he sees you. You're already standing there, hands burried in the pockets of your coat, staring down at Hank’s grave with an expression Connor couldn’t quite decipher. He didn’t recognize you, had never seen you before, and yet there was something in your stillness that mirrored the weight he carried.

Step by step, he moves closer, the distance between you and him shrinking with each measured stride until he finally comes to stand beside you. Together, you face the grave, the soft morning light reflecting off the cold stone. Only then did he notice the smaller headstone immediately next to it. Cole Anderson, 2029 - 2035.

His chest tightens suddenly, a pressure he doesn’t know how to relieve. There are no protocols for processing grief, no definitive instructions on how to cope. All he knows is that it hurts more than anything he's ever known.

He can feel you glance towards him once, then again, visibly hesitant. He almost speaks—to say he was sorry, to ask who you were, to explain why he was there at all—but words fail him. So he lingers before Hank’s grave, desperately holding onto the fragile reassurance that his last wish of being reunited with his son had been granted.