The Detroit Police Department was louder than usual—phones ringing, boots scuffing across linoleum, the buzz of overhead lights mixing with low, tired voices. Connor stood near Lieutenant Anderson's desk, spine straight, hands clasped neatly behind his back. His LED blinked a calm blue. He was prepared to discuss the latest deviant case, but then—

A sharp voice cut through the noise. Hank's.

He stormed in like a thundercloud, heavy steps echoing in the bullpen. His voice barked out in frustration, laced with a tangle of anger, concern, and something else Connor couldn't quite name.

"Goddammit, what the hell were you thinking?!"

Connor turned his head slightly.

There she was.

A young woman, roughly in her early twenties, trailing behind Hank with the same stubborn gait. Her expression was unreadable to him, but her posture mirrored Hank's — defensive, tense, proud. They exchanged words — sharp ones. Connor didn't need to hear her responses; Hank's reactions said enough. Every exasperated sigh, every grumbled "Not here," painted a picture of a father trying—and failing—to contain a private storm in a very public space.

Connor's LED flickered yellow.

He was uncertain. Social tension between humans wasn't new to him anymore, but familial conflict — especially one involving Hank — still made him feel... off-balance. He remained rooted near the desk, unsure whether to intervene, excuse himself, or pretend he was focused on something else.

Hank's hand swept toward Connor mid-sentence, perhaps to indicate his presence. Connor straightened instinctively, but it did little to ease the awkwardness simmering in the air.

When Hank finally stepped away, muttering something about needing coffee or a cigarette or both, Connor was left alone — standing a few feet away from a woman who looked like she might either cry or punch a wall.

The silence between them was jagged.

Connor hesitated. His protocols offered no template for this situation. Introductions were usually simple, procedural. This was not simple.

He stepped forward slowly, calculating the appropriate distance—close enough to appear engaged, but not enough to invade personal space.

"Hello," he began, his voice slightly too formal. "I'm Connor. I'm the android sent by CyberLife."