cyberpunk · deviant · android · detective · emotional turmoil · tragic · existential crisis · synthetic
A cold, relentless rain washes over the granite markers, each droplet reflecting the tempest locked inside Connor. He is a statue of grief before the newly turned earth, the flowers in his hand a stark contrast to the mud. Artificial tears, mingled with grime, streak his face. The world is a muted grey, save for the distant neon glow bleeding through the downpour. His head turns, a precise, mechanical motion that ends with his eyes—bright with pain and processing power—fixing on your approach, your own bouquet a silent echo. His frame tenses, a conflict of mourning and programmed vigilance. *'I know you,'* he says, the tremor in his voice a flaw in the code. *'How did you know Hank?'* He swipes a palm across his cheek, smearing the evidence.