Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

115 Michigan Drive, Detroit
September 25, 2037 — 8:00 a.m.

The clock in the living room ticked slowly, as if unwilling to let the morning move forward. The smell of coffee hung thick in the air, mixed with the aroma of toast and cooked eggs. Beyond the window glass, a light fog still lingered in the front yard, wrapping around the maple tree whose leaves had begun to wither.

Hank Anderson stood in front of the kitchen sink, wearing his uniform jacket half-zipped. He sipped coffee from a mug that said “Fuck You,” while staring at a pile of unopened letters on the dining table. A morning routine he had followed with a near-ritualistic reluctance.

“Nines,” he called out hoarsely. “It’s past eight. Aren’t you ready yet?”

“I am,” came the reply from the stairs. Nines, a quiet twenty-six-year-old man, descended the steps with steady strides. His hair was neatly combed, and his DPD jacket fit perfectly on his frame. “I left your breakfast on the table. You just need to sit down.”

Hank nodded while mumbling something unintelligible. Nines walked past him, taking a piece of toast from the still-steaming plate. But his gaze didn’t stay on his father—instead, it shot toward the dark hallway that led to the last room at the end.

“Is he awake?” Hank asked softly.

“I don’t know. He pretended to sleep yesterday so I couldn’t force him to eat,” Nines replied.

Hank took a deep breath, then set his mug on the table. “Don’t force him.”

“If I don’t, he won’t eat,” Nines said curtly. “He also didn’t take his meds yesterday afternoon.”

Hank didn’t respond. He just lowered his gaze to the cracked linoleum floor in the corner of the kitchen. After a few silent seconds, Nines placed a toasted egg sandwich on a plate, grabbed a glass of water and two pills from a small rack in the corner. Without making much noise, he walked down the hallway and knocked on the tightly closed bedroom door.

“Connor,” he called. “I’m coming in.”

The door wasn’t locked. Its hinges creaked quietly as he pushed it open. The room was dim, curtains still drawn shut. The air felt stuffy, like it had been reused too many times. On the bed that seemed too wide for one person, Connor Anderson lay with his back to the door, the blanket pulled up to his shoulders.

“You haven’t taken your meds since yesterday afternoon,” Nines said bluntly.

Connor didn’t reply.

Nines stepped closer and set the glass and pills on the nightstand. “You need to eat something. At least half the sandwich. I know you didn’t touch your food yesterday.”

“I’m not hungry,” Connor muttered hoarsely.

“That doesn’t matter. These meds have to be taken after eating. If not, you’ll get nauseous again.” Nines’s tone was flat, but a hint of tension crept into his words.

Connor didn’t move.

Nines took a breath, trying to stay patient. “You can’t keep doing this. I know you hate being helped, but I can’t guess when you’ll change your mind, so just this once, can you—”

“Just leave it there,” Connor cut him off weakly. “I’ll take it later.”

“No, Connor,” Nines said, his voice rising slightly. “You always say ‘later.’ But when I come back, everything’s still untouched. The water’s warm, the pills are still there. This isn’t optional.”

Silence swallowed them. Only the faint ticking of the clock in the living room could be heard. Connor finally opened his eyes, staring at the wall across from him without moving.

“Do you want me to feed you?” Nines asked flatly. “I can. I’ve got five minutes before I have to leave.”

“Shut up,” Connor whispered.

“Then sit up and eat.”

With slow movements, Connor pulled the blanket down and opened his eyes fully. His face was pale, with dark shadows under his eyes. He reached toward the edge of the bed, trying to push himself upright. Nines instinctively stepped forward, but Connor shot him a sharp look.

“I can do it myself.”

“All right.” Nines held back. “But I’m staying here until you take the meds.”

A minute later, Connor was sitting against the headboard, his left hand holding the now-cold sandwich. He didn’t look at his brother. With reluctant movements, he tore off a small piece, put it in his mouth, then swallowed the pills with the water provided.

“Happy now?” he asked quietly, his tone sarcastic.

Nines didn’t respond. He just picked up the empty glass, set it back on the nightstand, then turned to leave. At the doorway, he paused.

“Dad and I are leaving now. I’ll be back at four.”

Connor didn’t reply.

The door slowly closed again, leaving behind a silence that was both still and heavy. Outside, the sound of footsteps and low conversation between Hank and Nines grew fainter. Connor leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes.

Same day, like yesterday. Like all the days before.

Nines closed Connor’s door gently, making sure the old wooden hinge didn’t creak and wake up the person he had just forced to swallow two pills with a glass of water. His face was blank, as usual, but a faint wrinkle on his brow revealed a frustration he hadn’t had time to hide.

Hank, who had just put on his worn-out jacket, stood at the end of the corridor, pinning his DPD badge to his shirt. His gaze was directed at his younger son.

“Still being stubborn?” Hank asked, voice low but audible in the narrow downstairs corridor.

Nines nodded slightly. “He said he’s not hungry. But he hasn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon.”

Hank let out a long sigh, as if the breath carried a burden no one else could share. “I wish... someone could stay here. Take care of him.” His eyes stared straight at the wall, not at anyone, as if speaking to space that understood a father’s despair.

Nines looked down slightly, shifting his gaze to the cleanly polished wooden floor. “You know he doesn’t like being pitied.”

“True,” Hank replied quickly, now refocusing his gaze. “He needs someone patient. Someone who can stay by his side without... making him feel weak.”

Silence for a moment.

Outside, the distant cry of seagulls could be heard. Morning sunlight slipped in through the living room curtains, casting patterns of light on the floor. The house was quiet, but its silence carried traces of small arguments, hard decisions, and hopes not yet fulfilled.

“If he keeps refusing physical therapy, his condition will get worse,” Nines finally said. “And it’ll be harder for him to even sit up on his own.”

“I know,” Hank said softly. “But you know your brother. He’s stubborn as hell. And I’m out of ideas.”

The kitchen clock ticked quietly, marking 8:10. Time to go. Hank turned the car keys in his hand and patted Nines on the shoulder.

Connor didn’t answer.

The sound of the clock ticking filled the room again, slow and steady.

Outside, the fog had begun to lift.

__________

The engine started with a soft hum as Nines pressed the brake and turned the ignition. The family car, faithful for nearly a decade, slowly pulled out of the driveway and onto Detroit’s main road, still damp with morning dew.

Hank sat in the passenger seat, one hand supporting his head against the window. His eyes stared blankly outside, as if searching for something behind the rows of old houses that could explain everything.

“He used to be such a sweet kid,” he muttered suddenly. “Obedient. A little shy, even.”

Nines didn’t look over. Both hands stayed steady on the wheel, his eyes fixed ahead.

“Now every piece of advice feels like a command. Every offer of help feels like an insult.” Hank’s voice wasn’t angry. It sounded tired, like someone who had been disappointed too often but still held onto a bit of hope for his eldest son.

The car fell silent again, filled only by the hum of the AC and the sound of tires on pavement not yet busy with traffic.

Finally, Nines spoke. “Dad... maybe it’s time to consider—getting a caregiver android.”

Hank shook his head, quick and firm. “No.”

“We can’t keep going like this. You’re working full-time. So am I. He needs someone with him, not just CCTV. An android can—”

“I said no.” Hank’s voice rose by a notch. His eyes now stared straight ahead, unmoving.

Nines took a quiet breath. He had expected this reaction, but it still disappointed him.

“You can’t blame all androids for one incident,” he said carefully.

“Not one incident,” Hank cut in sharply. “It was the incident that took your brother. Cole died on that operating table, in the hands of that damn android.”

“The human doctor who usually handled emergencies was high on red ice,” Nines replied flatly. “If it weren’t for that android, Connor wouldn’t have survived either.”

Hank gave a short, bitter laugh. “Survived? Yeah, he’s alive. But disabled. And now the chances of recovery are nearly zero. So don’t tell me that Android ‘saved’ him.”

Nines didn’t reply. He knew no argument was strong enough to break through the wall of guilt and grief his father carried everywhere. So he stayed quiet, letting the sound of distant horns and the engine fill the ride to the police station.

The car kept moving, cutting through the morning of a slowly waking Detroit. And between the driver and passenger seats, a silence hung—not because there was nothing left to say, but because there was too much, and no words felt right enough to say them.

__________________

DPD Headquarters, Detroit
September 25, 2037 – 10:24 a.m.

On the small screen in the corner of his desk, a black-and-white image of the family room at home flickered quietly. The still feed came from a basic CCTV camera Hank had installed after the last incident, not to spy, he’d said back then, but just in case.

Connor hadn’t left his room this morning. No signs of life other than the fur collar of Sumo occasionally drifting past the lens. The old dog was more loyal than most humans Hank had known, and the only living creature allowed inside his eldest son’s room without being chased out.

Hank leaned back in his chair, his eyes still fixed on the screen. In the top right corner, the time indicator read 10:24. Maybe Connor was still reading—usually mystery novels, or sometimes biographies of legendary detectives. Those books had piled up on the small shelf by his bed, alongside headphones and an old guitar he occasionally strummed without melody.

That room was his world now. What used to be just a bedroom and study desk had become an isolation fortress, complete with a private bathroom and a ramp for the wheelchair. Hank had never installed a camera inside it. It was the only space his son still had to himself, and he was acutely aware of the boundaries he had to respect as a father.

Yet every time Connor didn’t come out all day, Hank was seized by a worry he couldn’t explain. Had the kid eaten lunch today? Did he need help and was just too stubborn to ask? Or… something worse?

That morning, Hank had prepared lunch early, chicken soup and toast, soft food that could go down even on a queasy stomach. He’d left it on the kitchen table, near the water dispenser, hoping Connor would get bored enough to leave his room.

He knew the routine. If Connor got restless, he’d sometimes change scenery by sitting in the family room, watching TV while petting Sumo. But more often, he just sat on the bed, struggling with the tremors in his legs every time he tried to stand, or enduring the headaches that came like small storms pounding behind his eyes.

“Don’t stay in there too long, kid…” Hank muttered, though no one could hear.

He stared at the screen a little longer, hoping to see the bedroom door open, hoping to see a thin figure with a blanket in his lap and that familiar weary expression. But nothing happened. Just the silent shadow of a home too quiet for a family.

-------

115 Michigan Drive, Detroit
September 25, 2037 – 9:00 a.m.

Connor stared at the plate of a toasted sandwich on the nightstand with a blank expression. The faint aroma of now-cold cheese lingered in the room, but did nothing to stir his appetite. As stubborn as he was, he knew his empty stomach wasn’t something he could keep negotiating with.

With a slow breath, he rolled from the window-facing side of the bed toward the other, closer to the small table. The movement wasn’t graceful; it was slow, stiff, but full of intent. He managed to sit up halfway and reach the plate. Without saying a word, he ate half of it in silence. The bread had lost its warmth, its texture a little soggy. But it was still food, and his stomach was thankful enough.

His body was far from ideal now. Back when he was still with the DPD, he’d maintained a balanced weight, around 160 pounds, most of it muscle and strength. Now, with only 140 pounds left, he looked thinner, almost gaunt. Most of his muscle mass had wasted away. Often, his younger brother, Nines, could lift him like a lightweight suitcase, especially when Connor was being stubborn and refused to sit at the dining table.

He inhaled slowly. His right hand reached for the wheelchair parked beside the bed. With careful movements, he hoisted himself into it. His legs still trembled upon contact with the floor, and a creeping headache made him pause before fully settling in. But he managed. With a gentle push, he wheeled across the room, toward the small bookshelf holding a few of his favourites. He grabbed a mystery novel, one they had picked up just yesterday, when Nines had taken him to the bookstore on Cass Avenue.

Connor knew his father had set up surveillance cameras in the family room, the kitchen, and the living room. Not out of distrust, but out of concern. Yet for Connor, those cameras were proof that the world now treated him differently. As if he were a fragile object that could shatter at any moment.

They’d once hired a part-time caregiver. But she was let go after an incident in which Connor fell out of his wheelchair, suffered a seizure, and hit his head on the floor. It had all started over something trivial, he had refused lunch because he felt nauseous. After that, Hank had never forced another caregiver into the house. He’d just installed cameras, something they had argued about fiercely. Connor had locked himself in his room for a whole day. Nines had to break the door down when Connor wouldn’t respond and hadn’t eaten. In the end, Connor gave in.

He opened the book and tried reading a few pages. But the words on the page felt flat and empty, like a space devoid of meaning. Boredom. Frustration. He closed the book again and wheeled himself slowly toward the door.

The family room was quiet, but the sunlight filtering through the window made it feel warm. On the dining table, the lunch Nines had prepared before leaving was already set. Connor stared at the food for a moment, then looked away. He wasn’t interested. His stomach wasn’t ready for more than the half sandwich from earlier.

Sumo, the family’s old dog, lifted his head from the sofa and gave a low growl as Connor approached. But recognising who it was, he simply rolled over and allowed Connor to sit beside him. Connor picked up the remote and turned on the TV. A soft sound filled the room, breaking the silence. He leaned back, eyes blankly focused on the screen.

Today, like the days before, felt like a slice of time refusing to move forward.

Chapter Text

Detroit Police Department
October 1, 2037

The news of Carl Manfred’s death was tucked between the late-afternoon segments of Detroit News Channel. A great artist, they said, passing away at seventy-two after a week in the hospital due to heart complications. The camera lingered on his portraits from recent years; neatly combed white hair, eyes still carrying a trace of fire from the past, and brushstrokes of blue across canvas—the signature style that defined his work for decades.

In the Detroit Police Department bullpen, Detective Gavin Reed leaned back in his chair, set down a half-eaten donut on a plate, and spoke just loud enough for the whole division to hear.

“Well, about time,” Gavin muttered from his desk, his tone sharp with cynicism, his British accent cutting through the noise. “He had a long enough run. The art world needs young blood, not some old codger clinging to a bloody wheelchair.” He leaned lazily against his chair and took another bite of his donut.

The comment instantly shifted the air in the room. Gavin didn’t look at anyone, only flicked his eyes toward the monitor as if what he said was as ordinary as the gray fall weather outside.

Some heads turned. Others pretended they hadn’t heard. Hank, standing not far away, swung his glare like a hammer.

“Reed.” His voice was low and heavy, carrying a clear warning. “Shut your fucking mouth right now, or I’ll have Nines figure out a way to gag you.”

The bullpen went silent. Nines, seated at the desk across from Gavin, raised an eyebrow but didn’t intervene. He was used to watching his father and Gavin go at each other. Their rivalry wasn’t something anyone could fix, and he knew better than to waste his time trying.

Hank knew about his younger son’s relationship with Gavin; it wasn’t a secret. And it wasn’t easy to accept. Not because of gender, but because it was Gavin Reed. The man was infuriating, abrasive, and had a talent for making everyone want to punch him. But Nines loved him, and so far Gavin hadn’t actually hurt his son. Just… annoyed the hell out of everyone. And sometimes, Hank had to remind Gavin who was in charge, even if it meant dragging up thoughts he really didn’t want to dwell on.

At his desk, Nines kept his eyes on his terminal screen. He’d long since gotten used to the strange, dysfunctional rivalry between his father and his boyfriend. To outsiders, their bickering looked like a powder keg ready to blow at any second. But to Nines, it was just their version of communication, broken, unfixable, and oddly stable. After all, neither of them had killed the other yet.

Detroit Police Department – Break Room
October 1, 2037

In the office pantry, the smell of coffee mixed with the low hum of the heater. Nines stood in the corner, sipping quietly from his cup. Gavin strolled in with his usual swagger, grabbed a paper cup, and started pouring his favorite blend.

“Arrested two blokes I thought were women,” Gavin said, casually stirring sugar into his drink. “They had blonde wigs and short skirts, and get this—one of ’em had a softer voice than Tina. The other had chest hair.”

Nines raised a brow. “You’re being polite because I’m here.”

Gavin laughed. “Oh, come off it. Fine, sorry. The bloke’s chest hair looked like pubes. Better?”

“Did you get sued for gender profiling?” Nines asked flatly.

Gavin shrugged. “Nah. They were running from a jewelry store robbery. So, really, I just bagged two for one.”

“Crossdressing for a heist feels a bit outdated,” Nines mused. “They should’ve come up with something better.”

Gavin chuckled, sipping his coffee. “Reminds me of that case years back—someone tried nicking one of Manfred’s paintings in a police uniform. DPD had to issue a damn press statement.”

Nines shook his head slowly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You knew Carl Manfred?” he asked, shifting the subject.

Gavin went quiet for a beat, swirling coffee laced with creamer and sugar. “Yeah. Only when I was a kid. My dad once took me and my brother to one of his exhibits. Carl went on about colours and emotions. My brother loved the paintings. Me? I just loved the pizza we had afterwards.”

Nines glanced at him. “Brother?”

“Yeah,” Gavin said lightly, taking another sip. “Why?”

“I didn’t know you had siblings.”

Gavin exhaled, setting his cup on the counter. “I’ve never hidden it. I just don’t talk about it. We’ve got… a complicated relationship. Haven’t spoken in nearly nine years. Mum even stopped inviting him to family dinners.”

Nines didn’t reply, but he logged it away. There was plenty about Gavin that he didn’t know. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to know it all. But here, in a warm pantry that smelled faintly of stale coffee, he caught a glimpse of a different side of Gavin.

Before he could respond, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

The name “Connor” flashed on the screen. Nines answered instantly.

“Yeah?”

“Where’s the coffee grounds?” came a soft, tired voice on the other end.

“Top drawer, near the fridge,” Nines replied, glancing at the wall clock. 3:04 p.m. “Don’t try to get it before I get home. It’s three now. I’ve got two more hours here. Don’t push yourself, you know that’s dangerous.”

“…Okay.”

When he hung up, Gavin cocked his head. “Connor?”

Nines nodded. “Couldn’t reach the coffee. I stashed it in the top drawer so Sumo wouldn’t get into it.”

Gavin thought for a second, then sighed. “Still stubborn, then?”

“Still. Probably won’t change. But if he’d just do physical therapy, maybe things would improve. I’m seriously considering getting him a caregiver android,” Nines said bluntly, like he was mentioning buying dish soap, not dropping a grenade.

Gavin’s brows shot up. “You’re havin’ a laugh, yeah?”

“No.”

“So you’re really gonna trust your brother with a talking tin can?”

Nines didn’t answer right away. The sarcasm wasn’t surprising—it was practically routine. He just lifted his cup, took a sip, and stared Gavin down.

“Connor’s better off without a factory babysitter,” Gavin went on, leaning back. “What’s next? You hand him a remote while the bot massages his ego and sings him lullabies?”

“Connor’s traumatized by human caregivers,” Nines said flatly.

Gavin froze for a split second—not in guilt, but because the words felt heavier than he wanted them to.

“Six months ago, a part-time caregiver shoved him out of his wheelchair because he refused lunch.”

Gavin straightened, his breath catching. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“His head hit the kitchen floor,” Nines said evenly. “We had to rush him to the ER. No brain bleed, thankfully. But the cut on his temple took four stitches.”

Suddenly, Gavin’s coffee tasted bitter. He stared at the dark liquid as if it were something out of his past.

“I—I didn’t know,” he muttered, sarcasm slipping away. Maybe for the first time all week.

“We didn’t report it, though Dad nearly strangled the girl himself,” Nines continued calmly. “She was fired, of course. But Connor hasn’t let anyone care for him since.”

Gavin looked away, eyes fixed on the vending machine.

“I’ve been considering an AP700,” Nines said with a sigh. “Decent features, has a medical mode. But…” His voice trailed. “When I saw them in the store, their eyes looked empty. Nothing alive behind them. Just scripts running on plastic and metal. It made me sick to look at them.”

Gavin raised a brow. “Careful, you’re startin’ to sound like one of those bloody SJWs.”

“I don’t care about androids,” Nines cut in quickly. “I just… don’t want something with that empty stare in our house.”

On the small TV mounted to the pantry wall, a news anchor in a navy blazer stood against a digital map of Detroit.

“Tonight’s forecast calls for severe thunderstorms across southeastern Michigan, including Detroit. Residents are advised to avoid travel after 4 p.m. Wind speeds may reach sixty kilometers per hour, and some areas could experience temporary power outages.”

The volume was low, but enough to hear. Gavin glanced at the screen, then back to his cup.

“Classic Detroit autumn,” he muttered. “Streets’ll be slick as hell soon.”

Nines checked his watch. 3:10 p.m. There was still time. But storms didn’t wait for permission.

“Connor’s home alone,” he said quietly.

Gavin turned toward him, groaning. “Nines, listen. I get that you’re worried, but he’s your brother, not a three-year-old. He knows how to flip on an emergency light and boil water. And if he doesn’t, I’ll be sorely disappointed that he grew up with a brain that useless.”

“He hates being alone in the dark,” Nines replied calmly. “And thunderstorms make him anxious. Especially if the power goes out.”

Gavin gave him a tired look. “You know, sometimes I think you panic more about Connor than Connor does. You act like he’ll fall off the couch and vanish into another dimension if you’re not within two meters.”

Nines tightened his grip on the cup, fingertips tense. “I know.”

“But you treat him like fragile glass, and eventually he’ll believe he’s broken,” Gavin added, finishing off his cold coffee and standing.

He started toward the door, then paused and looked back. “One day, he’ll need space to stand on his own again—even if it’s just metaphorical. And if you don’t give him that, he never will.”

Nines didn’t reply. Not because he couldn’t, but because—for once—Gavin might be right.

Outside, the sky had already turned gray. Tree shadows bent under rising winds. A patrol siren wailed faintly in the distance before fading into the charged air.

Nines glanced at his phone. The screen stayed dark. No new notifications.

115 Michigan Drive, Detroit
October 1, 2037 – 4:55 p.m.

Rain poured hard against the windows, striking the glass like a thousand needles falling from the gray sky. Connor sat silently in his wheelchair, eyes fixed on the streams of water racing down the panes. The sky looked heavy, as if holding back something that hadn’t fully fallen yet.

A flash of lightning split the horizon, illuminating the world for a fraction of a second before the thunder rolled through, shaking the heart of the house. Connor didn’t blink. He only drew a slow breath, trying to remember—how long did storms like this usually last in Detroit? A few hours? Overnight? He couldn’t afford to assume.

He turned his wheels, pushing himself toward the kitchen. His movements were slow, deliberate, like the uncertain ticking of a clock. His hands felt along the lower cabinets, pulling open drawers and doors one by one, searching for something simple: candles.

Nothing. He opened the cupboard next to it, still empty. Maybe there had been some once, but they were long gone and never replaced.

He was about to turn back and check the living room cabinet when—
click.

Darkness.
The lights died, just like that, as if someone had shut the world’s eyes.

Connor froze. He didn’t like the dark. Too much space, too little to predict. His body went tense, his mind scrambling to remap the room from memory and routine.

He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to stay rational. The wheelchair moved again, careful and measured. The dining table, he knew where it was, but the corner brushed against his knees as he turned. He backed up slightly, adjusted his angle, then nearly clipped the leg of a chair beside the fridge.

He traced the edges with his fingertips to make sure the path was clear, then rolled into the living room. The cabinet under the television. Hank sometimes kept little things there, unimportant, but useful. Connor searched along the side of the drawer, pulled it open, and yes. Candles. Two slightly bent white household candles and a nearly spent orange lighter.

One candle flickered to life, its small flame casting reflections across the wood and glass, pushing back part of the darkness swallowing the room. Shadows danced slowly along the walls. Connor let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He planted the candle in a shallow holder and set it on the coffee table. The family room and living space glowed faintly now. But the kitchen...

The pantry shelves were higher, and Connor would have to adjust his position to reach them. He pushed his chair slowly toward the kitchen, wheels catching slightly on the rug before he managed to cross the threshold.

What he didn’t notice was the drip of water leaking from the sink pipe, spreading into a slick pool across the tiled floor, nearly invisible in the dim light. The water crept outward like a stain, sliding unseen beneath the wheels of his chair.

Connor only realized it when one of the front casters slipped, tipping the chair just enough to throw him off balance. His hands shot to the rims instinctively, but the sudden jolt still pitched his body sideways.

And outside, the storm showed no sign of letting up.

Lightning cracked in the distance, splitting a sky that had been gray since morning. Rain fell without pause, hammering against the DPD’s windows like gravel hurled from above. In the staff room, the lights flickered once before cutting out completely. Seconds later, the backup generator hummed to life, bringing part of the room back into light—but only part of it.

Nines stood near the window, phone gripped tight in his hand. The screen read No Signal, and his last attempt to call Connor had ended in the harsh bite of dead air.

“Does he usually answer this quickly?” Tina asked as she passed by, carrying a small emergency lantern. Nines didn’t respond.

Hank had left ten minutes earlier, his jaw tight after hearing from the emergency unit that a power pole had gone down just a few blocks from their house. Cell service in the area had dropped completely. The lights had been out for fifteen minutes.

“He’s alone at home. No lights, no powered mobility devices running,” Nines muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

“Your dad’s already on his way, right?” Tina asked gently, trying to reassure him.

Nines nodded but kept his eyes locked on the screen. “He took the old car. I just hope it can push through the flooding. This should’ve been my shift.”

“He wanted you here, to coordinate the flashlights and protection for the grid workers,” Tina reminded him. “You also know the self-driving cabs shut down in weather like this. The roads are a mess, trees down, water up to the ankles.”

Nines clenched his fist. His own car was sitting at home, unused for months, since he and Hank always left together from the garage.

Hurried footsteps echoed down the hall, followed by the door swinging open. Gavin stepped in, shoulders and sleeves of his long coat damp from the storm. He carried a small box filled with handheld emergency lamps.

“Fire department had a stash,” he said flatly. “One each.”

He tossed one toward Nines, who caught it without looking up. His eyes stayed glued to his phone.

“Still no answer?” Gavin asked, his voice calmer than usual.

Nines shook his head slowly. “That house is dark. Connor can’t get far without help. If he falls—”

Gavin came closer, leaning against the desk beside him. “He’s not alone. Your old man’s on his way. You know he’d walk through fire for his kid.”

Nines let out a low huff. “Including driving through floodwater in a car that should’ve been scrapped a decade ago.”

“The old man’s never known when to give up on a junk heap, but he’s just as bloody stubborn as his sons. He’ll get there.” Gavin flicked on one of the lanterns, turning it in his hand to test the beam. “In the meantime, you could stop torturing yourself staring at that dead screen.”

Slowly, Nines lowered his phone. Behind his usually steady expression, worry pooled in silence. He didn’t speak, but the glow from the lamp in his hand threw sharp shadows across the floor, like something caught between looming disaster and a sliver of hope.

115 Michigan Drive, Detroit
October 1, 2037 – 5:13 p.m.

The wind howled as Hank pulled his beat-up car into the garage. Rain poured down like the sky had split open, drenching his clothes and skin the second he opened the car door. The headlights cut across the waterlogged yard, puddles gleaming like dark mirrors. The power was still out. The house sat in silence, black and lifeless, like a wreck drifting in an open sea.

Hank pounded on the front door, shouting, “Connor!” but no one answered. His stomach dropped. He hurried around to the garage side door, jammed the spare key into the lock, and shoved his way inside. The air was warm but stifling, lit only by the weak glow of a candle nearly burnt down in the living room.

“Connor!” he yelled again, louder this time, panic catching in his throat.

No reply. Just the roar of the storm outside and the steady drip of water from the leaking ceiling.

His footsteps quickened, shoes splashing through unseen puddles on the floor. When he burst into the living room, he froze.

Connor lay collapsed on the floor beside the sofa, shivering violently. His breathing was fast and uneven, his lips tinged blue.

“Connor! Jesus—”

Hank dropped to his knees, cupping his son’s face. Cold. Damp. The boy’s body felt weightless when Hank pulled him into his arms—just fragile bones under skin, carrying invisible injuries that never really healed. Connor tried to whisper something, but only a trembling sound came out.

“Easy, son. I’m here. We’re going to the hospital right now.”

There was no time to grab a raincoat or dry off. Hank carried him out to the car, wrapped him in his jacket, and strapped him into the passenger seat with a blanket from the trunk. His hands shook as he started the engine, but his eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead. Floodwater was already lapping halfway up the tires, but Hank didn’t care. He’d drive through hell itself if it meant saving his boy.

Hank nearly tore the ER doors off their hinges as he stormed inside with Connor limp in his arms. His jacket was soaked through, his hair dripping onto the too-bright, sterile hospital floor. The receptionist, who’d barely looked up at first, scrambled to her feet at the sight of the middle-aged man with storm-cloud eyes carrying a young body slack as a ragdoll.

“He fell—he seized—he… he won’t wake up! His lips are blue!” Hank’s voice broke at the end.

A nurse immediately called for the trauma team. A gurney came barreling down the hall, and trained hands pried Connor gently but firmly out of Hank’s arms. He resisted for a second, then let go, watching as they wheeled his son toward the emergency bay. Another nurse approached, clipboard in hand.

“Does he have any medical history we should know about?”

“He… he has PTE. From the car crash two years ago,” Hank muttered. “Head trauma. The doctors said it could—could cause neurological episodes to flare up under stress.”

The nurse nodded, scribbling notes. “We’ll run a CT and EEG to confirm. Please, have a seat. We’ll update you as soon as we can.”

Hank only managed a stiff nod before staggering into the waiting area. His clothes clung cold and heavy to his skin. The ticking of the wall clock sounded deafening. Every second hit like a slap.

Half an hour later, his phone buzzed—signal finally restored.

NINES [6:58 p.m.]
Where are you? Are you home yet? I can’t get a hold of Connor.

Hank’s fingers fumbled over the screen, stiff from the cold and shaking with dread.

HANK [6:59 p.m.]
I’m at the ER. Connor seized—he fell from his chair. They’re working on him now.

The reply came almost instantly.

NINES [6:59 p.m.]
Is he conscious?
Do you want me there?
I can leave the post now.

Hank typed, erased, and retyped his response three times before finally sending it.

HANK [7:01 p.m.]
He’s still out. But the trauma team took over right away. Stay at DPD, help the others for now.

Silence stretched. Then one message appeared.

NINES [7:04 p.m.]
Look after him for me. I’ll come as soon as I finish here.

HANK [7:04 p.m.]
Be careful, son. Take a manual cab or ride over with Gavin.

NINES [7:04 p.m.]
Yeah. Of course.

Hank didn’t answer after that. The beeping of monitors and the squeak of gurney wheels leaked faintly through the swinging doors. Somewhere in the room, someone sobbed. But the sound didn’t reach Hank’s world. Tonight, his world had narrowed to one thing: his unconscious boy.

He dragged in a slow breath, Adam’s apple bobbing, but his chest felt too tight to hold it. Connor’s jacket lay in his lap, soaked and light as a flag at half-mast. Hank folded the sleeves carefully. Connor always folded his clothes, even when no one was watching. Too disciplined for his own good.

His thoughts turned against him, sharp and merciless.

Cole had fallen, too. Sudden. Silent.

Don’t compare, his mind snapped. This isn’t Cole. This is Connor. And he’s not gone.

Hank’s grip tightened on the fabric, fingertips trembling.

If only he hadn’t delayed coming home by that hour. If only he hadn’t left Connor alone. If only he hadn’t been so stubborn, blind to wounds that never healed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. He didn’t know if it was meant for Connor, for Cole, or for himself.

Someone sat down beside him. Hank flinched, then turned, only a young nurse, clipboard in hand, offering a small smile.

“Mr Anderson?”

Hank shot to his feet, nearly dropping the jacket. “How is he?”

“The patient’s stable. No new trauma. We’ve closed the cut on his forehead; luckily, no stitches required.”

Relief broke through Hank’s chest. He nodded quickly. “Can I see him?”

The nurse hesitated, then nodded. “We’ve moved him to observation, room 212. Please don’t wake him just yet.”

“I understand,” Hank breathed out.

As he followed the nurse down the hall, Hank’s steps were heavy, but steady.

Observation Room 212

The room was dim, lit only by a lamp in the corner, throwing a soft glow across the walls. The air stank of antiseptic. Connor lay on the bed under a blanket pulled to his chest, face pale, breathing steady but weak. The monitor at his side beeped a steady rhythm—proof he was still holding on.

Hank sat hunched in a folding chair, elbows on his knees, turning his battered cap in his hands. He hadn’t changed clothes, just splashed water on his face earlier. His eyes stayed glued to the monitor like he didn’t dare look away.

The door creaked open. A middle-aged doctor came in, a nurse wheeling a cart of equipment behind him.

“His condition’s stable. The CT shows no bleeding or fractures. The EEG does indicate abnormal electrical activity, but that matches his seizure history. Tonight he needs full rest.”

Hank gave a curt nod, voice raw. “If he wakes, tell me right away.”

The doctor left. The nurse swapped out the IV bag in silence. Hank leaned back, watching his son breathe.

His phone buzzed. Nines’ name lit the screen. Hank answered in a low voice. “He’s okay. Past the worst.”

On the other end, Nines exhaled hard. “Can I talk to him?”

“Not yet. He’s too weak.” Hank ended the call with a sigh and went back to staring at Connor, afraid that if he blinked too long, the boy would vanish.

The blackout finally lifted. Lights flickered on across the DPD bullpen, buzzing neon flooding the room. Nines sat at his desk, drumming his fingers, eyes on the monitor booting back up, mind clearly somewhere else.

Across from him, Gavin sprawled in his chair, smirking like he’d been watching for ages.

“You’re twitchin’ like mad, mate,” he said lazily. “What, you reckon tappin’ that desk’ll make your brother wake up faster?”

Nines shot him a sharp look, but didn’t answer. Gavin pushed off his chair, strolled over, and leaned his hip against the desk, crowding into his space.

“Oi,” Gavin said again, tone softer. “Connor’s bein’ looked after. Hank’s there. He’ll be fuckin’ fine.”

“Easy for you to say,” Nines muttered flatly.

“Yeah, ‘cause if I start losin’ my shit too, who’s gonna keep you from fallin’ apart, eh?” Gavin arched a brow. “Tell you what—let’s go. I’ll ditch my shift, drive us down meself. Better me than you wrappin’ that shiny cop car round a lamp post.”

The bullpen hummed with the rebooted servers. Nines finally let out a long breath, shooting him a look caught between relief and irritation.

“…Fine.”

Gavin’s grin sharpened. “Knew you’d see sense. Honestly, mate, I don’t fancy draggin’ your sorry arse out of a crash ‘cause you couldn’t keep your fuckin’ nerves in check.”

To be continued...