Predecessor (Connor x Reader)

19 - Recognition

"Amanda's going to be disappointed in me," he says quietly.

You blink. "Amanda?"

He hesitates, then answers. "She works for CyberLife. Oversees the deviancy investigations. She's... my handler."

"Your... handler?" you echo, frowning.

"She advises me. When I close my eyes and make a report to Cyberlife, I visit her in my head, and I talk to her there."

"She'll be disappointed because we let Rupert go?"

"Yes."

He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't need to. You understand. It's not just about orders. It's pressure. Control. Invisible hands steering him, even when he doesn't know if he wants to be steered.

You lean back slightly, studying him. "What's she like?"

Connor's gaze drops again "She's..." he starts, then stops. His mouth pulls tight, like he's picking through the right words carefully.

"Amanda is..." he tries again. "She's guided me from the beginning. She's the one who taught me what's right. What's important. She wants me to succeed. To be the best version of what I'm supposed to be."

He glances sideways—not at you, just past you, like it's safer to speak into the space between.

"She's... demanding. But... I trust her. I want to make her proud."

There's no bitterness in his voice. No anger. Only something rawer: a kind of quiet hope, the aching need of someone still trying to be 'good' in the only way he was ever taught.

"Even when it's hard," he adds. "Even when it doesn't feel right... I know she's trying to help me."

You watch him as he speaks. The careful words. The way he picks them like stepping stones across a river he's afraid to fall into.

It's like an overbearing parent. The conditional love. The child taught that approval has to be earned. That even their instincts, their doubts, are wrong if they go against what's expected of them.

Connor trusts her—because he was built to. Because he never had the chance to know anything else. Even now, as he talks about her, you can hear it: the pressure wrapped up in loyalty. The confusion twisted into obedience. And worse—the quiet, aching hope that if he just tries hard enough, maybe he'll finally get it right. Maybe he'll finally deserve whatever it is he's been chasing since the day he opened his eyes.

Your heart twists. He doesn't even realise he's still chasing approval from someone who only sees him for what he can do—not for who he is.

You lean forward slightly, elbows on your knees. Careful with your voice. Careful with your words.

"It sounds like you trust her a lot," you say.

Connor nods once, instinctive.

You keep your tone light—almost conversational. "Has she ever told you she's proud of you?"

He hesitates. That tiny flicker of confusion—the way his mouth parts slightly—tells you enough.

You sit back, letting the silence stretch just a second too long.

"Sometimes," you add gently, "the people who are supposed to guide us... they don't always get it right. Even when they think they are."

Connor says nothing. But his gaze sharpens slightly. Watching you now. Listening. You don't push. You don't accuse. You just leave it there, like a seed dropped quietly into the soil, something he can pick up later, when he's ready.

You stand, grabbing your jacket, preparing to head home. But you hesitate as you turn to him, something keeping you there.

"Would you like to come over to my place again?" You ask. "You know. Unofficial debrief. Just us."

There's a small shift in his expression. Almost a smile. And there's a pause that hums with something almost tender.

But before he can answer, your phone buzzes loudly against the desk. You flinch, pulled out of the moment. You frown and grab your phone. Incoming dispatch. Connor is already pulling out his own terminal, scanning it fast.

Eden Club. Homicide. Immediate response requested.

You drag a hand down your face with a groan. "Guess it'll have to wait."

Connor tilts his head slightly. "Should I inform Lieutenant Anderson?"

You both glance at Hank's empty desk. You call him first. Straight to voicemail.

Connor tries next. Same.

"He's supposed to be lead on this callout," you mutter.

Connor frowns, visibly conflicted. "We should not proceed without him."

"Yeah, well, not much we can do if he's—"

Connor interrupts, voice firmer. "We need him."

You blink, caught off guard by the urgency in his voice. You really look at him—and realise it's not just protocol he's thinking about. It's Hank.

You pull on your jacket with a sigh. "Alright. Let's check Jimmy's. And if he's not there, we swing by his place?"

Connor gives a small nod. Like he's grateful you didn't argue. You don't say it out loud, but you're grateful too.

Still your team.

Still together.

Even if it's messy.