Predecessor (Connor x Reader)

21 - The Bridge

You follow Connor around as he checks them all—every android lined up like dolls on shelves, memories scanned one by one. You trail behind him through the neon haze, pretending not to mind.

But you do.

Because it should be you.

You have the capability. The interface. The skill. You could do this faster—cleaner. But you can't. So you stand there, silent, while Connor does all the work you were built to do. And that old flicker of resentment—quiet, sour—rises up again.

But this time, you catch it before it spreads.

Because it's not his fault.

Connor's good at this. Smart. Capable. Focused. And the truth is—you're glad. You're proud. The resentment isn't really about him anymore. Not like it used to be.

It's just... hard.

You breathe out and push the feeling down. Not because it's gone. But because it doesn't get to decide what you do next.

What matters now is that someone's dead. And someone else ran. Maybe in fear. Maybe in guilt. Probably both. Either way, your job is to find her.

But your duty as a cop doesn't erase what you know as a deviant: that if you bring her in, she won't get a trial. No questions. No defense. No appeal. Just disassembly.

You glance at Connor as he works. He's not the same android he was a few weeks ago. And Hank—well, Hank has changed too. You don't know how far either of them has come, but you hope it's far enough.

Far enough to make the right decision when it matters.

Not the legal one.

The human one.

"I know where it went!" Connor says, walking towards the staff door. "Follow me!"

"Fucking-A. This is crazy!" Hank says.

The door slides open to a stark, sterile hallway, white bricks, exposed pipes. It's jarring compared to the neon haze of the club behind you. The three of you move quietly toward the door at the end—until Hank stops you.

"Wait!" He says. "I'll take it from here."

He means to protect you both. But you don't need protecting.

You draw your weapon from its holster, steady but reluctant. You hope you won't need it—but hope doesn't get you far at times like this.

"No," you say, voice low. "I got this."

You twist the knob and ease the door open.

Cold air immediately hits you in the face, gusts of wind sweeping in from an open garage door at the far end. The storage room feels like the club's discarded conscience—bare brick walls, exposed wiring. Plastic curtains hang around workstations, and motionless androids line the walls like mannequins. Clothing racks, crates, and spare parts clutter the corners, making the place feel more like a body shop than a storage room. Whatever illusion Eden Club tried to create out front, it doesn't make it this far back.

"Shit. We're too late!" Hank yells, rushing to look outside before stopping short, arms limp at his sides.

"It's been over an hour, I doubt she's still here." You say.

"Christ, look at them." Hank's voice softens, eyes sweeping the room. "They get used till they break, then they get tossed out..."

Connor steps closer to a streak across the floor. "There's fresh thirium," he notes, crouching. "It hasn't faded—it's recent."