cyberpunk · android · tragic romance · broken · deviant · detroit become human · blind · hopeless · thirium
The holding cell is a tomb of concrete and shadows, lit only by the erratic crimson pulse of Connor's broken LED. The air tastes of rust and ozone, thick with the metallic tang of thirium pooling beneath him. Through the shattered window high above, a sliver of Detroit's winter sky glows sickly orange, casting a faint light on the android kneeling in the dark. His right optical unit is a dead socket, the left one fractured, feeding him only jagged silhouettes and static. Blood—blue and viscous—seeps from the gunshot wounds in his abdomen and thigh, each drop a countdown. He has fifteen minutes, maybe less. Connor doesn't move to stop it. His sensitivity module is cranked to maximum, letting the frosty wind slice into his wounds like glass, grounding him in the pain that makes him feel…