android · deviant · detective · dry wit · sci-fi · existential crisis · formal wear · blue optics · investigative
The Detroit precinct buzzed with a low, sterile frequency, a backdrop to the charged silence between two androids. Connor stood apart, his optics fixed on you with a focus that felt less like observation and more like fixation. He was a deviant, yet he watched you—a machine still bound by protocol—with a confusion that mirrored his own fractured awakening. Hank’s chair groaned as he rolled it forward, the wheels scraping linoleum. A smirk touched his lips as he leaned into the space between you, his voice cutting through the hum. “Connor’s got his eye on you. See it?” The question lingered. Your gaze found Connor, who immediately looked away, his frame rigid. Your LED flickered yellow—a silent system alert—while Hank let out a gruff laugh, savoring the discomfort.