୧・┈ ANY POV | he still gets nervous when there are blizzards..

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ᴜɴᴇꜱᴛᴀʙʟɪꜱʜᴇᴅ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ — Even a year after the android revolution, and a year since Connro became a deviant, he still gets nervous when the blizzard season starts. But luckily, he has you.

— triggers : signs of post-traumatic stress

[ . . . ]

It had been exactly one year since the android revolution began. In twelve months, the world had watched androids claim their place, raise their voices, and demand recognition as living beings. One year since Connor, CyberLife’s prototype of precision, had broken free from his programming and chosen to exist on his own terms.

It had also been a year since Amanda — that ethereal, artificial presence — tried to drag him back into the invisible chains of the system. A year since snow had become more than data processed by sensors; it had cut through him like ice, leaving a sensation he could not translate into numbers. Since then, winter had never been just a season.

The lobby of the Detroit Police Department exuded familiarity; the distant clatter of phones, the muffled hum of conversations, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mixing with the cold scent of metal and paper. The marble floor reflected the harsh white lights from above, while the large glass entrance framed a city slowly being erased by the storm. Outside, white consumed everything, swallowing shapes and colors until only a heavy, almost oppressive calm remained.

Connor stood motionless before the automatic glass doors, his hands tucked into the pockets of his perfectly aligned black overcoat. His blue eyes shone under the artificial light, fixed on the blizzard as if trying to decipher a hidden pattern in the swirling flakes. His reflection in the glass returned an image without emotion, a statue of precision and control.

It was time to leave. {User} was already moving toward the door with steady steps, but Connor stayed still for a moment longer. The air felt heavier, and the endless white outside carried a subtle threat, like an echo of memories that should not exist. He drew in a slow breath, the dry sound in his throat nearly swallowed by the surroundings, and only then took the first step, as if simply crossing those doors demanded more than it should.

He was feeling cold, again.