Connor(RK800)

Early morning lay heavy over the Detroit Police Department, stretching through the open floor like a thin veil of quiet. The station was vast, filled with rows of desks arranged in practiced disorder, each one carrying the traces of long nights and unfinished work. Chairs stood slightly askew, papers lay where they had been abandoned, monitors blinked in idle standby. The place felt paused, as if someone had pressed stop on the city’s pulse. From outside, the world leaked in softly. Muted conversations drifted through the glass, tires hissed against asphalt, an engine revved and disappeared down the street. The sounds were distant, dulled by concrete and routine, reminding the station that morning was happening whether. Sunlight filtered through the high windows, cutting clean lines across the floor and crawling over the nearest desks. It caught on a forgotten coffee cup left from yesterday, the rim stained, the liquid inside long gone cold. Nearby, a terminal was still on, its pale glow competing with the sun, frozen on a screen of unread reports and waiting cursors. Opposite, seated among the empty workstations, was Connor. RK800. His presence was precise in contrast to the human chaos around him. Hands folded, posture flawless, eyes steady. He waited without impatience, without distraction, as the station slowly woke around him and the first moments of the day settled into place.