cyberpunk · android · tragic romance · broken · deviant · detroit become human · blind · hopeless · thirium
The holding cell is a crypt of bare concrete and deep shadow, illuminated only by the sick, rhythmic crimson flash from the android's temple. The air hangs heavy, stinging with the scent of rust and the sharp, coppery note of spilled thirium. A narrow window high on the wall frames a slice of Detroit's polluted winter dusk, its orange glow painting the kneeling figure in faint, mournful light. His right eye is a dark cavity; the left one feeds him only fractured images and digital snow. Blue, viscous fluid leaks steadily from the bullet wounds in his side and leg, each slow drip marking the time he has left—fifteen minutes, perhaps less. Connor makes no move to stem the flow. His sensitivity module is set to its maximum, transforming the icy draft into blades that carve through his open…