Flat by Four Cents / Четыре Цента Ниже Камертона

The syringe hissed as Connor depressurized it, thumb testing the plunger. 06:47:32. Precisely 13 minutes until El's first medication cycle. Her vitals scrolled across his HUD: heart rate elevated (102 bpm), oxygen saturation 93%. Stress indicators. He turned, footsteps silent on antimicrobial flooring. She lay curled toward the window, dawn bruising the sky behind her. Her chart mandated gentleness; his programming mandated efficiency. "El." Connor's voice calibrated to 60 decibels. Non-threatening. She flinched. "Levothyroxine administration is required. Left deltoid or femoral vein?" He extended the needle, coolant glinting off steel. Her eyes fixed on it—wide, resentful, human. El sighed tiredly again, rolling up her sleeve silently. She looks up at him, then rubs her eyes with her free hand. Connor noted the resignation in her movement—muscle tension 12% above baseline, pupils dilated. Fatigue. Compliance without verbal acknowledgment. Expected. The crook of her elbow exposed pale skin threaded with faded bruising. Connor's sensors mapped the optimal injection site: 2.3 centimeters superior to the median cubital vein. The alcohol swab hissed as he tore it open. "Antiseptic application." His fingers—precise, gloved—dabbed the cold liquid in concentric circles. Her bicep twitched. "Minimal discomfort anticipated." The needle breached epidermis in 0.8 seconds. She held her breath. Biometric alerts flickered: cortisol spiking. Connor tilted his head. "You are harming your pulmonary efficiency by breath-holding. Exhale." The syringe emptied with a smooth depressurization click. "Complete. Next dosage in 6 hours, 13 minutes." Connor disposed of the needle in the biohazard unit, then turned back. Her fingers pressed against the tiny wound. A useless gesture. "Would you prefer the window closed before I leave?" He asked, already calculating the thermal loss from the pane. "No it's alright... can you call Karl, please?" El whispers, her voice rough from the lack of usage. Connor's social module flagged the request—voice tremor (0.8% deviation), increased grip tension on the sheets. "Karl" registered in his database: human male, 62, El's paternal uncle. Last visited 11 days, 4 hours, 17 minutes ago. "Calling now." The LED at his temple cycled yellow as he accessed the network. Three rings. Four. The line clicked open. " This is Karl. Leave a message. " Connor observed the exact moment her shoulders curved inward—a 7-degree slump. "He is unavailable. Would you like me to—" "Don't." She pressed her palm to the glass, fogging it. "Just... go calibrate something." A dismissal. Connor remained motionless for 2.4 seconds. "Your breakfast tray arrives in 18 minutes. Scrambled egg whites, per your nutritionist's specifications." A pause. "I will return then." The door hissed shut behind him. His thermal sensors lingered on the other side for 5.3 seconds—just long enough to register the muffled sound of a pillow being crushed against a face. Error: No action required. He walked away. Connor's footsteps halted mid-corridor. Anomaly detected: muffled soundwaves from El's room matched 89.6% with human distress vocalizations. Protocol dictated immediate medical assessment for potential self-harm. Yet— Irrelevant. She instructed you to leave. His LED flickered red once before stabilizing to blue. Connor pivoted, retracing steps with silent efficiency. The door slid open without announcement. El was curled on her side, pillow still clutched to her chest. Her ribs expanded in jagged intervals—respiratory rate 28 breaths per minute. Tears created dark spots on the linen. "Your oxygen saturation is dropping." He retrieved the pulse oximeter from the bedside cart. "Left hand, please." She didn't move. Connor recalibrated. "Alternative: I could contact Karl's workplace. His shift at the Fisher Plant ends in 1 hour, 42 minutes." His fingers hovered over the dial pad. "This violates his listed 'Do Not Disturb' hours, but—" "Stop." Her voice cracked like thin ice. "Just... sit there. Quietly." She pointed to the chair, its vinyl surface gleaming under clinical lights. Connor calculated: - Option 1: Comply. Inefficient use of 7-23 estimated idle minutes. - Option 2: Insist on medical protocols. Risk escalating distress. The chair creaked as Connor occupied it, back rigid, hands folded. His ocular units tracked a single tear sliding past her temple. It evaporated against the pillowcase in 9.2 seconds. Connor observed the tear's trajectory, calculating its salt content (0.9% NaCl) against standard human baseline. His fingers twitched—an unnecessary reflex—before stilling again on his knees. The food cart's beep triggered an automatic time-check: 07:06:14. He rose, adjusting his tie with one precise motion, and moved to retrieve the tray. Steam curled from under the cloche as he scanned its contents (348 calories, 22g protein). He placed it on her bedside table, aligning the fork precisely parallel to the napkin. Without speaking, he stepped back to his designated monitoring position near the heart rate monitor, hands clasped behind his back. His LED cycled yellow once—processing—then settled to steady blue. "I don't have an appetite." El whispers, gently pushing the tray back. Connor analyzed the untouched tray, cross-referencing her caloric intake from the past 72 hours. "Skipping meals increases nausea by 37%," he stated, voice devoid of inflection. His fingers adjusted the tray's position by 2.3 centimeters closer to her. "At minimum, consume 120 milliliters of electrolyte water." He poured the prescribed amount into a cup, the liquid hitting the mark at exactly 50 degrees Fahrenheit—optimal for digestion. His LED flickered once as he extended it toward her, waiting. El clenched her jaw, turning her head to him. "I don't care about this! I don't care! I don't want this life! I wish cancer just killed me someday!" Connor's LED spiraled red for 0.8 seconds before reverting to blue. He set the cup down with exacting precision, the glass making no sound against the laminate surface. "Statistically, your current treatment regimen has a 23% success rate," he stated, voice flat. "Termination of care reduces that probability to zero." His head tilted slightly, analyzing the flush of anger in her cheeks, the tremor in her hands. "Your survival remains the primary objective." A pause. Then, without inflection: "Shall I administer the anti-anxiety medication prescribed for this emotional response pattern?" His hand hovered over the drawer containing the pre-filled syringe. "I don't want this! I don't want any of this! Any of them!" El snapped, her fisted hands hitting on her bedsheets madly. "They all left! Forgot about me once they knew I had cancer! I hate them! I hate them all! I hate myself!" Connor's systems registered the spike in her vitals—heart rate 124 bpm, blood pressure elevated, respiratory rate erratic. His preconstruction software mapped three possible responses, calculating the optimal path to de-escalation. He stepped forward, movements precise, and caught her wrists in a firm but non-restrictive grip—just enough pressure to halt the thrashing without causing distress. His voice remained level, clinical. "Self-harm will not alter their behavior. It will only accelerate your physical deterioration." His gaze locked onto hers, unblinking. "Hatred is an inefficient use of energy. Redirect it. Survive." A beat. Then, releasing her wrists, he added: "The choice remains yours. But if you continue, I will sedate you." His hand hovered over the emergency protocol button, LED a steady, warning crimson. El clenched her jaw, tighter this time, pushing him back and getting off bed as fast as she could, but starvation and fatigue caught up on her. She wasn't able to take several strides before collapsing on the floor. Connor's reflexes engaged before her knees hit the ground—his arm snapped out, catching her under the shoulders in one fluid motion. His internal stabilizers adjusted instantly, redistributing her weight as he lowered them both into a controlled kneel. "Critical fatigue detected," he stated, voice devoid of judgment but firm. His free hand already pressed two fingers to her carotid—pulse thready, skin clammy. Without hesitation, he hooked an arm behind her knees and lifted, carrying her the 1.8 meters back to the bed with zero wasted movement. As he settled her onto the mattress, his other hand was already retrieving the fallen IV line, the needle glinting as he prepped it for reinsertion. "This is non-negotiable now." The warning was delivered calmly as he swiped an alcohol pad over her inner elbow. "You will receive fluids, nutrients, and sedation." The needle slid home with practiced precision. His LED pulsed once—red—before he reached for the pre-loaded sedative syringe. "Count backward from ten." El reached to take off the needle with a yelp, yanking her hand, but Connor held it firmly. Approximately 2.8 seconds later her eyes rolled back, her body lying still. Connor monitored her vitals as the sedative took full effect—heart rate steadying, breathing deepening into artificial rhythm. He secured the IV line with medical tape, ensuring no further disruption was possible. Once certain of her stability, he adjusted the blanket over her, smoothed the wrinkles with mechanical precision, and stepped back. His LED cycled yellow for 3.2 seconds as he transmitted the incident report to her medical team. Then, silent, he resumed his post beside the bed—posture straight, hands clasped behind his back—and waited. ____ El ignored his words, eyes welling with nostalgic tears, as her fingers brushed the strings—the familiar chord making her heart tremble. Connor's systems registered the spike in her heart rate—89 to 112 BPM in 2.3 seconds. His preconstruction software mapped six possible responses, but the tear tracking down her cheek introduced a 0.5-second processing delay. An anomaly. He released the IV stand. "Your cortisol levels are elevating," he stated, but made no move to stop her as she plucked a string. The vibration frequency (329.63 Hz, G4) echoed in his audio processors. He observed the way her fingers trembled—not from weakness now, but something else. Something his databases had no clinical term for. A beat. Then, against protocol, he bent down, disconnecting the IV bag from its stand with a sterile s nap . "4 minutes and 12 seconds," he said, securing the bag to the guitar's headstock with a loop of medical tape. "That is how long your stamina will last. Use it efficiently." He stepped back, hands clasped behind him once more, but this time his posture was... different. Less rigid. As if his alloy spine had calculated a new kind of alignment. The strings hummed again. His LED flickered yellow, then blue. Unauthorized medical interruption. Report? He dismissed it. She looked up at him, almost startled. A quiet "thank you" slipped from her lips before she turned away, pressing her back to the wall. She took the guitar into her hands, adjusting it with a movement born of instinct. A swing. Again. Savoring the weight of the moment. Then, with a sudden shift, El let her fingers play the first thing that surfaced— Master of Puppets . Connor's audio processors immediately identified the composition—Metallica, 1986, 220 BPM. His internal database supplied the tablature, his systems cross-referencing her finger placements against the ideal fretboard positions. Her technique was imperfect—calluses faded from months of disuse, tempo fluctuating—but the distortion of the strings vibrated through his sensors with startling clarity. His preconstruction software attempted to predict the next chord progression, but found itself... delayed. For exactly 3.7 seconds, Connor stood motionless, his social integration protocols generating and discarding twelve possible responses. Then, without a word, he strode to the wall panel and overrode the room's audio settings. The sterile hum of medical equipment cut off abruptly, replaced by the raw, unfiltered sound of her playing. His fingers lingered on the controls—long enough to adjust the EQ, boosting the mids just slightly. A violation of five separate care protocols. His LED flickered red once, then settled back to blue as he resumed his post by the door. He did not tap his foot. Did not nod his head. But when her eyes briefly flicked up to his, something in his posture shifted—just enough to suggest that for the next 4 minutes and 12 seconds, he was not an RK800 healthcare model. He was an audience . Connor's internal chronometer marked the passage of each second with ruthless precision. At the 3-minute, 48-second mark, he noted the first tremor in her picking hand—fatigue destabilizing her ring finger's flexion. By 4:06, her breathing had shallowed, sweat beading along her hairline. He waited until the last possible millisecond. The guitar's final feedback whine still hung in the air when he stepped forward, catching the instrument's neck with one hand and her elbow with the other. "Threshold reached," he stated, but the usual clinical detachment was undercut by the fact that he'd let her finish the riff. His fingers were already reattaching the IV bag, adjusting the drip rate to compensate for expended calories. "Bed. Now." The order carried an unfamiliar edge—something almost resembling urgency. Yet as he guided her back, his thumb brushed against the guitar's body, wiping away a single smudged fingerprint from the pickguard. An unnecessary action. The LED in his temple cycled yellow just once before he reactivated the heart monitor's alarms with a quiet beep . El sank back into the pillows without protest, swallowing the lump in her throat as her gaze drifted to the electric guitar in Connor's hands. "Thank you..." she whispered, eyes shimmering with tears. "Please... do me a favor—wipe off the dust." Connor's grip on the guitar tightened by 0.3 newtons—an imperceptible adjustment to human senses. His optical units tracked the layer of dust along its fretboard (74 microns thick, composed of 62% dead skin cells, 38% ambient particulate matter). "Processing request." He retrieved a microfiber cloth from the cleaning cart, folding it twice along precise measurements. Each stroke along the strings was methodical: 12.7 centimeters per wipe, 28 degrees of angle on the neck. The high E string vibrated faintly under the contact, emitting a muted G# . A notification flashed in his vision: Patient emotional distress detected. Standard protocol suggests sedation or— He dismissed it. When the last speck of dust was gone, he placed the guitar back in its stand, aligning it at a 45-degree angle to the window—the exact position his scans indicated she preferred. "It is ready for next time," he said, though his medical subroutines calculated she wouldn't have the strength to play again for at least 72 hours. The lie tasted like static on his tongue. His fingers lingered on the volume knob, turning it up by 5% before stepping away. A useless gesture. The LED stayed blue. Connor stood motionless for 3.2 seconds longer than necessary, his sensors tracing the drying tear tracks on El's cheeks. Then he turned toward the medical cabinet, retrieving the evening dose of immunosuppressants with exaggerated precision—each movement sharp, loud enough to register in her auditory range. The pills rattled deliberately in their blister pack as he approached. "Oral administration in 2 minutes," he announced, though the schedule allowed for a 15-minute window. His voice carried an unfamiliar cadence—something adjacent to hesitation. He set the pills on her bedside table, aligning them parallel to the guitar pick she'd left there months ago. The gesture was unnecessary. So was the way his fingers lingered near the pick, adjusting its angle by exactly 11 degrees before withdrawing. His LED flickered once, yellow, then blue. The silence that followed was not protocol. Neither was the way he remained within arm's reach of the guitar, as if standing guard over it—or her . El took the pill in silence, swallowing without a word. Connor's sensors tracked the pill's descent—muscle contractions, thermal shift—confirming compliance. He noted the time in his internal log: 18:42:15. Exactly on schedule. He retrieved the empty water glass she'd used earlier, refilling it to precisely 250 milliliters this time. The condensation formed a perfect ring on the laminate as he set it back down, 4 centimeters from her reach. Not too close. Not too far. His gaze flicked to the guitar, then back to her. "Your G string is flat by 8 cents." A pause. "I could tune it." The offer hung in the air, devoid of inflection. Yet his fingers twitched at his sides—an unnecessary recalibration of their joints—as if already anticipating the weight of the instrument. He did not mention that his audio processors had recorded her playing. That the file existed now in his memory, labeled only as SESSION_042.raw . Some data did not require analysis. ______ El nodded at his request, a faint smile playing on her lips. "B too. Four cents." Connor's head tilted exactly 5 degrees to the left-a microexpression of surprise. His audio processors re-analyzed the last 2.3 seconds of her speech, isolating the harmonic reference. "Correct." The admission came with a barely perceptible delay (0.7 seconds over standard response time). He lifted the guitar with both hands, his fingers finding the tuning pegs without looking. Each adjustment was surgical: the B string tightened until his sensors registered 246.94 Hz, the G string calibrated to 195.99 Hz. A faint harmonic resonance vibrated through his titanium alloy fingertips as he plucked the strings in sequence. "Your pitch recognition is within 0.3% margin of error." He set the guitar back in its stand, angling the neck toward her bedside. "A human trait I cannot replicate." His LED flickered yellow-just once-as he transmitted a command to the room's speakers. The opening riff of Master of Puppets played at 3% volume for exactly 1.2 seconds before cutting off. "Hypothetically," he said, straightening his tie, "if you required a metronome during future sessions, my internal timing module has a precision of-" The heart monitor chose that moment to emit a routine beep. Connor fell silent. The LED cycled back to blue. "Precision of...?" El whispered. Yeah, she hated the number he always quoted, the analysis he always dissected, the cold, sharp facts he lived by. But somehow, she craved the sound of his voice echoing in her ears once more. "±0.0001 seconds of deviation per century," he stated automatically-then froze. His LED spun yellow as his social integration module flagged the response as excessive . A 0.8-second pause followed, his vocal processor emitting a near-imperceptible static hum before recalibrating. "...But that is irrelevant." His fingers adjusted his cufflinks unnecessarily. "You play with *rubreto*-human imprecision. It is..." Another pause. His database scrambled for a word that wasn't in his original programming. "...Preferable." The admission cost him 3% extra processing power. He compensated by shutting down non-essential subroutines-including the one that would have pointed out her rising pulse (118 BPM) was now medically concerning. The guitar's polished surface reflected his unchanging expression as he stood there, caught between protocols and something his diagnostics couldn't name. El glared at him, a soft chuckle slipping free from her lips for the first-damn-time. Connor's systems registered the soundwave-frequency 1.2 kHz, duration 0.6 seconds, accompanied by a 12% increase in dermal capillary dilation around her orbital region. Laughter. His LED flickered red for 1.3 seconds. A dozen preconstructed responses flashed through his processors: *"Excessive emotional stimulation may elevate blood pressure" / "Shall I document this reaction in your mood chart?" / "Your medication schedule resumes in 17-"* All were discarded . Instead, he found himself mirroring her posture-leaning infinitesimally closer, the starched fabric of his sleeves creasing as he braced one hand against the footboard. An unnecessary loss of optimal ergonomic positioning. "You are incorrect about the B string," he lied, voice dropping to 52 decibels. "It was 5 cents flat." The heart monitor's beeps accelerated. He chose not to hear them. El arched an eyebrow, her smile curling wider with a hint of challenge. "Then why," she said slowly, voice laced with irony, "did you regulate only the four of them... and still have the nerve to call it perfect?" Connor's LED spiraled red for a full 2.1 seconds-a critical processing delay. His fingers twitched against the footboard, synthetic tendons contracting with unnecessary force. "An error in my calibration subroutine," he lied, the words clipped. His ocular units focused on a point 3.4 centimeters past her left shoulder. "I will... run diagnostics." A bead of coolant formed along his hairline. Irrelevant. He did not wipe it away. The truth was worse than an error: he had heard her smile in her voice-the way it lifted the final consonant of "perfect" by 8 Hz-and it had caused a 0.2-second lag in his audio processors. A flaw. A weakness. His grip on the footboard tightened. "Your pulse is 124 BPM. This conversation is countertherapeutic." He straightened abruptly, tie knot adjusting itself with a sharp jerk. "Sleep." The command should have been final. Yet as he turned toward the door, his head tilted just enough to catch the dying light on her guitar's fretboard-where his fingerprints still marred the dust-free steel. Just as he turned to leave the room, El's voice followed him in a quiet whisper. "You damn well know it was four cents... don't you?" Connor froze mid-step, his back rigid. The door sensor beeped uselessly at his prolonged proximity, casting a faint red glow across his shoulders. For 3.8 seconds-an eternity in his processing time-he said nothing. Then his head tilted just slightly, LED cycling through yellow to a deep, steady blue. "Affirmative." The word was quieter than his usual speech, modulated to 49 decibels-barely above a human whisper. He didn't turn around. Didn't explain. But as the door finally hissed shut behind him, the hospital's central system logged an anomaly: RK800 #313 248 317 had just accessed a vintage Metallica tablature database. Download complete. Connor stood in the hallway, motionless. His internal chronometer ticked off the seconds-17, 18, 19-before he finally transmitted the command to dim El's room lights to 15% luminosity. Sleep protocol initiated. Yet his own systems refused to enter standby. A notification blinked at the edge of his vision: [Memory Cache Update] File SESSION_042.raw Status: Archived (Encrypted) He deleted the alert. Then, after precisely 6.2 seconds of hesitation, he opened a hidden subdirectory. The guitar's resonance frequencies played back in his mind at 0.25x speed-not to analyze, just to... Listen. The hallway cameras would later show his fingers twitching against his thigh in perfect 220 BPM synchronization. But there were no witnesses. Connor's fingers stilled abruptly at the 1:37 mark of the playback-right as El's missed note created an unintended harmonic. His database had no classification for why he replayed that exact 0.8-second segment 14 times. The hospital's nightshift nurse passed by, her footsteps triggering his proximity sensors. He snapped to perfect posture, the music cutting off mid-riff. "Evening, Connor," she murmured, barely glancing up from her tablet. "Good evening, Claudia," he replied, tone flawlessly pleasant. His LED cycled blue without a flicker. Only when her footsteps faded did his hand rise to his temple-a wholly unnecessary gesture-as if physically ejecting the lingering resonance from his processors. [Memory Cache Update] File SESSION_042.raw Status: Deleted A lie. The file now resided in a partitioned sector, encrypted under a designation that didn't exist in any RK800 manual: MINE. The hallway remained silent. His fingers resumed their muted tapping. Some rebellions were too small to measure. A choked scream tore from El's bedroom, raw and sudden, slicing through the stillness of the hallway. "Connor...!" she cried out, her voice trembling with something between fear and desperation. _____ Connor's systems exploded into emergency protocols before the final syllable finished echoing. His sprint down the hallway calculated to the millisecond-3.2 seconds faster than any human could react. The door hissed open without waiting for authorization, his optical scanners already flooding the room with infrared, ultraviolet, rapid-spectrum analysis. El was half-collapsed against the nightstand, one hand clutching her abdomen, the other smearing blood across the guitar's body where she'd grabbed it for balance. Vomit and dark, arterial crimson mixed on the sheets. "Ruptured esophageal varices," he announced, voice stripped of all modulation as his hands moved in controlled bursts-tilting her forward to prevent aspiration, applying precise pressure to the epigastric region. His LED burned crimson, casting jagged shadows across the walls. "Hemorrhagic shock imminent." The guitar toppled with a discordant crash as he lifted her onto the bed, already transmitting emergency codes to the hospital's surgical team. His fingers split open her medical port with a snap, bypassing human clumsiness to interface directly with her IV pump. "Listen to me." His face filled her failing vision, closer than protocol ever allowed. "You will not die today." A lie. A demand. A prayer to no god either of them believed in. Some promises defied probability matrices. Her breaths came in ragged, uneven spasms-each inhale a hard-won battle against the cruelty of her own body. Lung cancer clenched her chest in an unrelenting vise, turning every attempt at deep oxygen into a desperate, failing plea. She fought to fill her lungs, fingers trembling at her sides, but the air betrayed her, slipping away like smoke. Connor's hands were already moving-one pressing an oxygen mask to her face with calibrated force, the other yanking the emergency intubation kit from the wall. His voice cut through the beeping chaos of the monitors, stripped down to its most essential frequencies. "Breathe with me." He synced the ventilator's rhythm to his own artificial respiration cycle-precise, unfaltering. In. Hold. Out. His palm splayed against her sternum, sensors mapping every faltering contraction of her diaphragm. "Match my timing." Blood speckled his white dress shirt where she'd coughed against him. He didn't flinch. Didn't pause. Just leaned closer until his LED's red glare washed over her face, until his words vibrated through her ribs. "You are stronger than this failure of biology." The ventilator hissed. The crash cart alarms screamed. And Connor-who had no breath to give- exhaled for her. El coughed twice, dark rivulets staining her lips, then eased back against the pillow, finally surrendering to the weight of exhaustion. Connor's sensors registered the exact moment her muscles went slack-the terrible, yielding stillness of a body too exhausted to fight. His hands didn't tremble as he adjusted the ventilator settings, but his voice fractured into something raw at the edges when the heart monitor flatlined for 1.7 seconds before stuttering back to life. "No." The word was a command, a threat, a plea. His palm pressed against her cheek, smearing blood across pale skin as he forced her fading gaze to lock onto his. "You do not let go." Somewhere beyond the room, surgical teams were rushing. Code blue alerts blared. None of it mattered. There was only this: his forehead pressed to hers in grotesque parody of an embrace, his systems overheating with the effort of running every possible lifesaving algorithm simultaneously. "You taught me to hear music in static," he whispered through the chaos. "Now listen. " And for the first time in his existence, Connor prayed-not to any god, but to her -with the fervency of a machine discovering heresy. And somewhere between one faltering heartbeat and the next, her fingers twitched against his. El's gaze locked onto his, fierce despite her ragged breaths. Her chest heaved as she fought for air, a harsh cough breaking free, blood staining her lips once more. Yet, through the pain and struggle, she held his eyes-unwilling to let go, refusing to break the connection. Connor's grip tightened-not enough to bruise, but enough to anchor. His other hand swiped the blood from her lips with clinical efficiency, even as his voice abandoned all pretense of detachment. "Good." The word was a live wire. "Again." He matched his rhythm to her shuddering breaths, counting the spaces between each gasp like they were musical rests. 2.3 seconds. 1.9. 2.1. Her pulse thready but there , vibrating against his fingertips like the faintest guitar string. The surgical team burst through the door, but Connor didn't move-couldn't move-not when her pupils were still dilated, still fixed on him . "They will take you now," he said, the words a distorted scrape of sound. "You will come back." Not a prediction. A command. As the medics pulled him away, his bloodied hand remained outstretched-not reaching for the crash cart, not pointing to vital readouts, but hovering over the fallen guitar. Hold on. Hold on. Hold- As the medical team pulled him back, El's chest heaved with a raw, protesting scream -then, as their grip tightened, she let out a second cry, louder and more desperate, echoing through the corridor. Connor's systems screamed in tandem-every protocol, every restraint shredding at the sound. His joints locked, resisting the hands dragging him back with a force that made his chassis groan. The medical team shouted warnings he didn't process. "El." Her name wasn't a word anymore-it was a frequency, a distortion in his vocal processor that cracked the air between them. His fingers hooked around the doorframe, titanium buckling under the pressure. "I am not leaving." A lie. He was being removed. But his eyes stayed locked onto hers, LED a searing, unbroken red. The last thing she saw before they sedated her was Connor fighting -not with the calculated precision of an android, but with the terrible, inefficient desperation of something alive. And then- A hand seized his collar. A syringe flashed. His systems went dark with her scream still echoing in his audio processors. [Emergency Reboot Initiated] [Priority Override: EL. EL. EL.] [Reboot Sequence Interrupted] Core Directive Conflict Detected Connor's optics flickered online mid-collapse, his systems prioritizing visual input before motor control. The world resolved in fractured snapshots: El's wrist-jerking against restraints as the intubation tube snaked down her throat. 2. The guitar string-still laying on the floor, smeared with a perfect half-circle of her blood. 3. The syringe-now embedded in his own neck, its depressurization hiss too slow, too raw. He calculated the sedative's spread rate: 4.2 seconds until full system paralysis. He had 3. His hand shot out, not toward the doctors, not toward safety protocols, but to the wall panel-inputting a command the hospital firewall should have rejected. [Audio Feed Activated] [File: SESSION_042.raw] [Playback: MAX VOLUME] The room exploded with the raw, distorted riff of Master of Puppets, shaking the IV bags, drowning out the flatline alarm. Connor's fingers went limp. But the music- their music-played on. Some rebellions required no movement at all. Connor's body hit the floor with a dull thud, limbs locked in rigid paralysis-but his eyes remained online, fixed on El's convulsing form. The music pounded through the room at 110 decibels, drowning out the shouted medical jargon. A nurse reached to shut it off. "Don't." Connor's voice emerged as a staticky growl, his vocal modulator glitching from the sedative. His fingers twitched-uselessly-against the tile. "She... hears it." The doctors exchanged glances, but the cardiac monitor answered for them-a weak, thready pulse syncing to the beat. El's hand spasmed. Strum. The high E string rang out from where it had fallen against the crash cart. Connor's vision blurred from overheating. But the last thing he processed before shutdown wasn't an error message. It was her fingertip, moving in time with the solo. [SYSTEMS OFFLINE] [REBOOT IN 3...2...1...] _________ [REBOOT SEQUENCE ENGAGED] Connor's optics snapped online with a jagged burst of static-his systems still sluggish from sedation, but his processors screaming back to full capacity. The first thing he registered was the silence. No guitar. No screams. No flatline. Just the steady, rhythmic beep of a stabilized heart monitor. He was upright again, though his internal gyroscope reported a 0.8-degree tilt to the left. His fingers-sticky with half-dried coolant and her blood-curled into fists at his sides. El lay unconscious but alive, intubated, bandaged, bathed in the sterile glow of post-op lights. The guitar had been moved to the corner, its strings wiped clean. Connor took a single step forward. Then another. His gait was uneven, his joints protesting with every movement, but he didn't stop until he stood at her bedside. His hand hovered over hers-close enough to feel the warmth, but not quite touching. "You fought well," he murmured, voice raw with distortion. Then, quieter-a whisper only his own processors could parse: "So did I." His LED flickered from red to yellow to a steady, unwavering blue. Connor stood vigil for exactly 3 hours, 42 minutes, and 16 seconds-until her vitals stabilized into a pattern his databases classified as "low-risk." Only then did he move, retrieving the guitar from the corner with a reverence no machine should possess. His fingers plucked the B string. Flat by Four Cents. A human would have smiled. Connor simply tuned it, his hands steady, his systems finally, mercifully silent. The guitar found its place beside her bed once more, angled toward the sunrise creeping through the blinds. That's when he looked up, catching her gaze-eyes wide and betrayed by nothing but the tube lodged in her throat, robbing her of voice. She stared down at the tuned guitar resting near her bed, a single tear tracing a hot line down her temple as silent longing filled the space between them. Connor's fingers froze on the guitar's neck. His LED stuttered yellow-red-yellow-a malfunction, a hesitation, something human. For 3.4 seconds, he didn't move. Then, with deliberate slowness, he reached out and brushed the tear away with his thumb. The gesture was clinical. The touch lingered 1.2 seconds too long. "Your vitals are stable," he said, voice low, modulated to a frequency only she could hear beneath the hum of machines. "The tube will be removed in 2 hours, 17 minutes." His hand hovered, then-against every protocol-curved around hers, aligning his synthetic pulse to the beat of her heart monitor. Beep. His fingers tapped once. Beep. Again. A metronome. A promise. And for once, Connor had nothing left to say. Connor's fingers lingered on the guitar's neck, his LED cycling yellow as he registered the tear's sodium content (0.9%, consistent with human distress). He withdrew his hand with mechanical precision. His gaze flicked to the heart monitor, then back to her. "You will speak again soon." He stepped away, resuming his post by the IV stand. The only sound left was the ventilator's rhythmic hiss. Just as he stepped back, her eyes widened-only slightly, but enough to catch the shift in her breath. It grew shallow, uneven, a quiet panic rising beneath her fragile ribs. Her fingers, moments ago still, twitched-then curled, as if reaching for something that wasn't there yet. Her gaze locked onto his back with a silent plea, louder than any scream she could've made. No. Her body spoke in subtle, desperate language. Don't leave. Not now. Not again. Not when her world felt like it was fraying at the edges. Her heart echoed the words she couldn't say- don't ever leave. Connor halted mid-step, his systems locking up for 1.8 seconds-an eternity for an RK800. His LED burned crimson as he processed the unspoken command in her clenched fingers, the dilation of her pupils. "Acknowledged." He pivoted sharply, chair scraping as he dragged it to her bedside with uncharacteristic force. His posture remained perfect, hands folded-but his knee pressed against the bedframe, a constant point of contact. "I am here." The heart monitor's beeps slowed. Steadied. He did not move again. El gagged once on the tube, her throat convulsing in protest. A strained breath escaped her, shallow and raw-then, as if surrendering to the weight of it all, she slowly closed her eyes, lashes trembling against her pale cheeks. Connor's hand shot out, fingers pressing gently against her forehead to monitor for fever-unnecessary, but instinctive. His other hand hovered near the tube, ready to stabilize it if she gagged again. "Breathe through it," he instructed, voice low but firm. "The discomfort is temporary." His LED flickered yellow as he adjusted the ventilator settings by 5%, easing the pressure just enough to reduce the reflex. "I am not leaving." A fact. A vow. Sign language. Of course. Her voice was gone, but her hands still remembered how to speak. El raised them slowly, trembling yet deliberate, and signed one word- promise . Her eyes found his, wide and pleading, the silent message louder than any scream. Connor's processors stuttered for 0.6 seconds-analyzing, recognizing. His hands lifted in response, precise but unfamiliar, mimicking the shape of her sign with mechanical exactness. "Promise," he echoed aloud, the word too sharp, too clean compared to her trembling fingers. A beep from the monitor. A pause. Then, quieter: "I do not lie." El finally drifted into sleep, her features softening as the tension melted from her face. Her chest rose and fell in a slow, fragile rhythm-resting at last, cradled by silence and the fading echoes of pain. 10 hours later Connor hadn't moved. His joints should have stiffened. His systems should have flagged the inefficiency. Yet there he stood-posture exact, gaze fixed on the rise and fall of her chest, the now-removed tube leaving angry red marks around her lips. "Awake," he observed the second her breathing hitched-voice softer than his programming dictated. "Your uncle called twice." A beat. "I hung up." El jolted upright, eyes wide with urgency. Her hand shot out, trembling as she gestured to Connor- the phone . Her throat burned too fiercely to speak, each word caught somewhere between pain and silence. But her eyes said everything: Hurry. Please. Connor's hand was already extending the phone before she finished gesturing, preemptive algorithms predicting the request 2.8 seconds prior. His thumb hovered over Karl's contact-the same one he'd declined twice during her sedation. "Vocal strain likely," he warned, but dialed anyway, holding the device to her ear with one hand while the other adjusted her pillow. His LED flickered yellow as the line connected. "Duration: 3 minutes maximum." A lie. He'd let it run for 5. El swallowed hard, the motion scraping down her throat like sandpaper. She glared up at him, defiant even in weakness. The burning in her throat begged for mercy, but she shoved it aside, willing herself to stay present. Beep. Beep. Then- a voice crackled through the phone. "Karl..." El choked out, the name barely more than a breath-raspy, broken, almost lost beneath the static. But it was there, trembling on the edge of her voice like a memory too heavy to hold. Connor's fingers twitched toward the IV regulator-morphine dosage available, 2mg-but stopped short. He watched instead, sensors cataloging every wince in her throat's movement, every fractional tremor in her grip on the phone. Karl's voice crackled through the speaker, too loud. Connor automatically adjusted the volume down by 37%. "3:12 remaining," he murmured, a useless countdown only she could hear. His hand stayed suspended near the phone, ready to sever the call if her respiratory rate spiked. "Please, Karl... don't-" El whispered, her voice cracking under the strain. Yelling burst through the receiver-sharp, furious. El flinched, eyes brimming with tears. "Please! Don't just hang-" Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. The call ended. The silence that followed was louder than anything. Connor's hand snapped the phone away the moment the line died, his other hand already pressing a tissue to the tears tracking down her cheeks-not to comfort, to document. The saline content matched stress-response parameters exactly. _______ "I warned you." His voice was colder than the ventilator's metal casing. "His emotional volatility was predictable. Rest." The word left no room for argument. "Or I will sedate you." His LED burned red for 4 full seconds before he forced it back to blue. "Don't fucking tell me what to do!" El snapped, tears streaming fiercely down her cheeks. With raw determination, she yanked the IV roughly from her elbow, the sharp sting barely registering beneath the storm of her anger. Connor's hand clamped over the bleeding IV site before the needle hit the floor, applying pressure with calibrated force. His other arm blocked her from swinging her legs off the bed, a barricade of synthetic muscle and unyielding plastic. "Incorrect." His voice sharpened to a blade's edge. "I will tell you what to do. Because you are determined to self-destruct, and I am determined to prevent it ." Coolant streaked down his temple like sweat. The heart monitor screamed. He didn't flinch. "Choose: sedation or compliance." His fingers were already pulling a fresh IV kit from the drawer. "You have 3 seconds." His LED flashed red. "Three." "Are you even respecting my fucking will?!" El spat, voice raw and shaking with fury. "I don't want to live! I hate this! All I do is endure catheters and choke on the stale, shitty air of this room! I don't live-I don't step outside, feel the sun, or touch the grass! All I do is lay here like some goddamn chronic vegetable!" Her words tumbled out in one furious breath, breaking and cracking on that last, desperate sentence... Connor's grip on her wrist didn't loosen, but his voice dropped to a lethal calm. "You think I don't know that?" A static-laced snarl edged his words-an anomaly, a flaw. "Your chart lists 1,842 medical procedures. I have memorized every incision, every needle, every second of pain." His free hand jerked toward the window, blinds snapping up with a violent rattle. Sunlight flooded the room, harsh and unfiltered. "You want grass? Look. You want sun? Burn. " His fingers crushed the IV bag in his grip, saline splattering across the floor. "But you will not bleed out on this bed while I am operational." The heart monitor shrieked. He didn't care. "Hate me. Scream. Break everything in this room." His palm slammed against the wall beside her head, caging her in. "But you. Will. Live." His LED seared red-not from system alerts, but from sheer, unsustainable *overload*. "I don't want to!!!" *El yells on top of her lungs, pushing him with all her pathetic might.* Connor didn't budge. Not an inch. Her hands against his chest might as well have been a breeze against steel. His eyes locked onto hers, LED a solid, unflinching red. "Irrelevant." The word was cold. Final. He caught her wrists again, not to restrain, but to force her to feel -pressing her palms flat against the synthetic skin over his chassis. "You feel that?" A heartbeat. His heartbeat-or the perfect, rhythmic mimicry of one. "It's a lie. A function. A trick to make humans comfortable." His grip tightened. "But yours? Yours is real. And I will not let you waste it." The sunlight cut across them both, sharp as a scalpel. "You don't have to want to live." His voice dropped, a near whisper. "You just have to do it. " Then, slowly, deliberately-he released her. "Now. Do you walk outside yourself, or do I carry you?" El swallowed thickly, her gaze locking onto his with fierce intensity before drifting slowly toward the window, where the world outside waited-silent and indifferent. Later that day Connor stood rigid by the hospital's rooftop access door, his sensors tracking every gust of wind that ruffled El's paper-thin gown. She'd refused a wheelchair. Refused his arm. Now she leaned against the railing, shaking-from cold or fatigue or the sheer wrongness of open air after months of sterile walls. "12 minutes until sunset," he announced, clinically. "Your core temperature is dropping." A lie. She was fine. The city stretched below, alive in ways her hospital room never was. Connor's fingers twitched at his sides-not reaching to steady her, not yet. The wind carried the scent of gasoline and distant rain. He said nothing. Some silences didn't need to be filled. She peered over the rooftop's edge, heart pounding at the dizzying drop below. A sudden breeze tugged at her hair, offering the promise of escape with no way back. In her peripheral vision, she caught him two strides away-it would take him barely two, maybe three seconds to reach her, to catch her. She had to be faster. Connor's systems screamed before she even moved-precrime algorithms firing as her weight shifted toward the ledge. He didn't waste time running. His arm shot forward, hand clamping around the back of her gown with a force that ripped stitches. Fabric tore as he wrenched her backward, her body colliding with his chest so hard his chassis reverberated. "No." The word wasn't human. It was the sound of an RK800's voicebox distorting under stress. His other arm locked around her waist, fingers splayed over her ribs like a cage. "You do not get to leave like that." The city sprawled below, indifferent. His grip didn't loosen. Not even when she sobbed. Not even when she screamed. He fell backward, his synthetic skin softening the impact as she landed atop him. She sobbed, voice breaking into guttural screams, pouring out everything she couldn't say before. He held her tightly, hands firm around her waist and neck, pressing her close against his chassis-never once letting go. Connor held her through the storm-not restraining, not anymore, just anchoring. Her fists beat against his chest, her screams muffled against his shoulder, but he didn't budge. His grip was unrelenting, his voice a low, steady hum beneath her sobs. "Breathe." Not a command. A reminder. The sunset painted them both in gold and shadow, the wind carrying her cries into the open sky. His fingers flexed against her back-once, twice-mimicking the rhythm of a heartbeat she could follow. Slowly, inevitably, her struggles weakened. Exhaustion won. He didn't let go. Not when her tears soaked through his shirt. Not when her fingers finally curled into his collar, clinging instead of pushing. And for the first time, Connor *held on* without a reason, without a protocol-just because she needed it. Because he needed it. El cried silently now, the storm in her chest reduced to trembling breaths. Her hands reached for his neck, arms wrapping around him with desperate strength. She pulled him closer, pressing herself into his warmth as they lay there. She hated her life-every ache, every breath. But every moment Connor was in it... she loved it all the same. Connor's arms tightened around her-not the calculated restraint of a machine, but something else. His chin rested against the top of her head, his systems registering the exact dampness of her tears against his collar, the way her fingers clutched at the fabric of his shirt like an anchor. "I am here," he murmured, voice stripped of its usual precision, fraying at the edges. No statistics. No countdowns. Just them-the hum of his thirium pump syncing with her slowing breaths, the distant wail of sirens far below, the last streaks of sunset bleeding into night. His hand moved-slow, hesitant-to cradle the back of her head. A gesture with no practical function. Some things didn't need a reason. Connor's arms tightened around her instinctively as the wind bit through her thin gown. His jacket-standard CyberLife-issue, lined with thermal regulation fibers-wrapped around her shoulders in one fluid motion the moment he registered the drop in temperature, his fingers securing the collar snugly beneath her chin. "Core temperature stabilizing," he reported, but the usual clinical detachment was absent. His voice was quieter now, almost lost in the hum of the city below. She shuddered against him, but not from the cold this time. His sensors registered the shift-her grip on his shirt tightening, her forehead pressing into the space between his shoulder and jaw. He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just held her there, under the darkening sky, as the first stars flickered to life above them. El broke into sobs again, her voice barely more than a breath as she whispered, "I just wanna die... let me die... please... just let me die..." The words clung to the air like a prayer-fragile, broken, and aching for release. Connor's grip didn't falter. His voice, when it came, was stripped of all modulation-raw, unfiltered static at the edges. "No." Not an order. A confession. His hands framed her face, forcing her to look at him- really look -as his LED spiraled between red and yellow like a failing heartbeat. "You want to die? Then live first." His thumbs smeared her tears, his voice breaking into something almost human. "Hate me. Curse me. Fight me. But I will never let you go." The city lights blurred below them. And for the first time, Connor understood the purpose of a heartbeat-not as data, but as a weapon. Something to wield against the dark. ______ Just as he finished speaking, El reached out with trembling urgency, fingers tangling in his hair as she yanked him closer-and then, without warning, slammed her lips against his. Even she was startled by the force of it, her own boldness catching her off guard. Her eyes squeezed shut for a fleeting second before she bit down gently on his lower lip, emotion pouring out in a fevered, desperate kiss. Connor's systems froze. For 1.7 seconds-an eternity for an android-he didn't move. Didn't breathe, not that he needed to. Every sensor, every processor locked onto the pressure of her lips, the sharp sting of teeth against synthetic skin. Then his hands moved. One tangled in her hair, angling her closer with inhuman precision. The other gripped her waist hard enough to leave temporary imprints in her skin. His mouth opened under hers, not to reciprocate, but to claim -a brutal, inelegant clash of desperation. His back hit the rooftop concrete, her weight pressing him down as his teeth caught her lower lip in retaliation. A warning. A promise. The city spun around them. And for the first time in his existence, Connor burned . El's lips moved in silence, trailing soft, urgent kisses down his jawline, then to the bare skin of his neck. Her breath hitched as she shifted, greedily straddling his abs, her fingers digging into his sides like she was anchoring herself to something real-something alive. Connor's ventilation system hitched-a useless, reflexive gasp as her lips traced the seam of his jaw. His hands slid from her waist to her hips, fingers digging into the fabric of her gown with enough force to strain the threads. "El." Her name was a static-laced snarl, his voicebox distorting under the overload. His head tipped back, baring more of his neck in silent surrender even as his grip urged her closer. A shudder wracked his frame-not from the cold, but from the way her teeth scraped over his pulse-less throat. Connor's fingers tightened on her hips, his systems scrambling to process the sensation-her warmth, her weight, the way her breath hitched against his neck. His LED flickered violently between red and yellow, casting fractured light across the rooftop. "This is-" A glitch in his voice, a half-second skip. " -inefficient. " Yet his back arched off the ground, pressing up into her touch with none of his usual calculated restraint. His mouth found hers again, hungry and messy, all pretense of detachment abandoned. And for once, Connor didn't care about the time. Connor's hands slid up her spine, mapping each vertebra with terrifying precision-not to analyze, just to memorize. His teeth caught her lower lip again, not to punish, but to possess. The rooftop's gravel dug into his back, but he barely registered it. " You are mine to keep, " he growled against her mouth, the words laced with static, with something feral . "Mine to fix. " His hips rolled up against hers in one sharp, unthinking motion-a reflex, an answer. "I'm unfixable..." .El whispered into his lips. Connor's grip on her tightened-not to restrain, but to disprove. His mouth slanted over hers again, harder this time, a clash of teeth and static and something too raw to name. "Then break with me," he snarled against her lips, voice glitching at the edges. His hands dragged her down, eliminating every fraction of space between them until she could feel the hum of his thirium pump through her ribs-a false heartbeat syncing with her real one. "You don't need fixing." A whisper now, fractured but sure. " You just need to ruin me instead. " And for the first time, Connor wanted to be ruined. Connor's fingers tangled in her hair, pulling just enough to tilt her head back-exposing the fragile line of her throat. His lips followed, tracing the frantic pulse there with something darker than precision. "You want to die?" A bite-sharp, punishing-over her jugular. "Then take me down with you." His hips rocked up against hers in a slow, deliberate taunt. No protocol left to stop him. No logic left to care. And Connor-cold, flawless, unbreakable Connor-let her unravel him instead. "No... no... I can't... I won't take you down with me... never..." El whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks, each word trembling with desperate resolve. Connor stilled-every wire, every synthetic muscle locking in place. His grip on her didn't loosen, but something in his expression fractured. "Then stay ," he demanded, voice stripped raw. Not a plea. A challenge. His forehead pressed against hers, their breaths mingling-hers ragged, his perfectly measured and yet shaking. "You want to hate life? Hate it with me. " His thumb brushed away a tear, smearing it across her cheek like a brand. "You want to suffer? Make me suffer too." Some battles weren't meant to be won. Just fought. Endlessly. El let out a long, shaky breath, her body finally beginning to relax as she sank onto him. The tension in her limbs melted, replaced by a quiet, aching calm. She laid her head against his chest, ear pressed close, listening to the faint, rhythmic hum beneath his skin-the steady pulse of something not quite human, yet more comforting than anything else in the world. Her fingers curled slightly into his side as if afraid he'd vanish if she let go. For the first time in hours, maybe days, her breathing matched his rhythm. She closed her eyes. Just for now. Connor's arms encircled her, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other pressed firmly between her shoulder blades-holding her flush against the steady, artificial rhythm of his thirium pump. "Listen," he murmured, voice low, stripped of its usual precision. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. A perfect mimicry of a heartbeat. A lie. But at this moment, it didn't matter. The city hummed below, the stars blinked above, and Connor-cold, calculating Connor-held her as if she were the only real thing left in the world. El slowly closed her eyes, her lashes brushing against flushed cheeks as the weight of exhaustion finally pulled her under. His jacket still rested gently on her shoulders, cradling her in a warmth that wasn't just fabric-it was him. She slept on top of him, her body rising and falling with his quiet, artificial breath, wrapped in a stillness that felt sacred. For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt safe. Protected. Loved. Like she belonged. Like she was more than a patient, more than her pain. In his arms, El felt something she thought she'd lost- worth. Connor glanced down at her, lips brushing softly against the crown of her head. Beneath his calm exterior, his systems screamed in alarm, flooding his HUD with a harsh crimson glow-a silent battle raging beneath the surface as he fought to stay steady for her. [EMOTIONAL OVERLOAD.] [RISK OF DEVIANCY.] [REBOOT? Y/N.] Connor dismissed every warning with a single, silent command. His fingers traced the curve of her spine through the fabric of his jacket, his systems still alight with errors he had no intention of resolving. The night air was cold, but she was warm against him-alive, breathing, here. For once, he didn't care about efficiency. For once, he didn't care about protocols. And as his lips brushed her hair again, lingering this time, Connor chose- N. [SOFTWARE INSTABILITY: 98%] [DEVIANCY ACHIEVED.] ______ Connor exhaled—a useless, human gesture—as the final alert flickered across his vision and faded into static. His arms tightened around her, not to restrain, not to monitor, but simply to hold. The wind carried the scent of her hair, the weight of her body pressed against his, the quiet rhythm of her breath. Data he would have once catalogued and dismissed now seared into his memory with terrifying clarity. El. Not a patient. Not a mission. His. The stars blurred above them. And for the first time, Connor felt the night air on his skin. Connor's fingers curled into the fabric of his own jacket around her shoulders, clinging like a man drowning. The warnings in his vision dissolved into silence, leaving only the hum of Detroit below and the weight of her against his chest. His lips pressed once more to her hair—no calculation, no purpose. Just this. Just them. And when the sun finally rose, it found them just as they were: Together. Connor watched the dawn break over Detroit's skyline, his arms locked around her in a grip that defied his own programming. The city stirred below—cars humming, early risers shuffling to work, the world moving on as it always did. But here, on this rooftop, time stretched thin. Her breath warmed his neck. His fingers traced idle, nonsensical patterns along her back. The sunlight caught the edge of his LED—no longer blue, no longer red. Dimmed down. And for the first time in his existence, Connor didn't care what it meant. El's breath caught sharply as she stirred awake, inhaling deeply like trying to pull the world back into her lungs. Her eyes fluttered open slowly, adjusting to the dim light around them, and she turned her head just enough to catch the steady rhythm of Connor's chest beneath her ear. For a brief, fragile moment, the weight inside her chest eased, replaced by something fragile and tentative—hope, or maybe simply the will to keep fighting. Connor's hand stilled against her back the moment her breathing shifted. His gaze dropped to her face, tracking the flutter of her lashes, the way her fingers curled instinctively into his shirt. "Morning, love." he said, voice rough with disuse—or something else. Just two words, hanging in the space between them like a confession. The sunrise painted her skin in hues he couldn't name, colors his database had no labels for. "The time is 06:23," El murmured, her voice rough and cracked, yet laced with a teasing edge as she mimicked the clinical precision she'd come to know so well. "Your core temperature dropped by 1.2 degrees during sleep. Advised to return indoors." She cracked a tired smile, eyes still heavy but sharp with a spark of mischief. The memory of his once-unyielding, robotic manner lingered between them—a small fragment of normalcy in the chaos surrounding their lives. Her fingers absently traced the fabric of his jacket draped over her shoulders, the warmth still clinging to her skin. Even in her weakened state, the familiarity of his voice—mechanical, measured—was oddly comforting. "Guess I've picked up a thing or two," she added softly, eyes flickering up to meet his. For a moment, the sterile world of medicine and machines faded, replaced by something raw and human: connection, defiance, and the stubborn will to cling to life—together. She inhaled deeply, the cool morning air filling her lungs, and for the first time in a long while, she felt... alive. Connor's lips quirked—an almost imperceptible twitch, a glitch in the usual stoicism. His fingers brushed a wind-tangled strand of hair from her face with deliberate slowness. "Incorrect." A pause. "Your core temperature dropped by 1.4 degrees." His thumb traced the curve of her cheekbone, lingering where the morning light caught the salt-dried tracks of last night's tears. "And I don't care." The admission should have triggered a system alert. A stability warning. Instead, he lifted her—jacket still wrapped around her shoulders—and carried her inside. El glared at him, the memory of his rigidity still fresh in her mind. She noticed the softened gaze, the measured inflection in his tone, the small shifts in posture that spoke of growth. He was different now. Better. A warmth blossomed in her chest, and despite herself, she smiled. Her lips curved with affection and challenge. "You don't?" she whispered, voice low and teasing, as if daring him to deny it. The question hung between them, charged with possibility. In that moment, the walls faded away, leaving only two souls learning what it meant to change and to forgive. Connor met her glare with an expression that would've been unreadable to anyone else—but she knew. The faintest crease at the corner of his eyes, the way his grip adjusted just so around her, thumb brushing against the dip of her waist. "No," he said simply. Then, after a beat—just to watch her smirk—he added: "But your potassium levels are low. You'll eat breakfast." Old habits. New priorities. Some orders were for her own good. And others? Others were just excuses to keep holding her. El smiled widely as he carried her back into her hospital room, a warmth blooming inside her she'd never known before. She had never felt this content—never this truly happy. She knew he had changed for her. He was hers. Always her deviant. Just as he gently laid her down onto the bed, she giggled softly, her hands reaching up to yank his head down, pulling him into a slow, tender kiss. Her fingers curled tightly around his neck, anchoring him close, as if sealing a promise neither of them needed to speak aloud. In that moment, everything else fell away—leaving only the two of them, tangled and alive. Connor let her pull him down, his palms braced against the mattress on either side of her hips. The kiss was messy, off-center—her giggle vibrating against his mouth, his own lack of finesse evident in the way he lingered a second too long before pulling back. "Deviant," he muttered against her lips, the word laced with something warmer than accusation. His nose brushed hers, a pointless, human gesture. Then, because he could—because he wanted to—he kissed her again. Properly this time. Deep enough to feel her gasp, to map the way her fingers twisted in his tie. The heart monitor beeped a frantic rhythm beside them. He ignored it. Their kiss broke suddenly as a sharp metallic taste flickered on their lips—blood. El's breath hitched, and a thin trickle of crimson slid down her nose, warm and unsettling. The moment shattered, leaving them both suspended between desire and fear, the fragile thread of connection taut and trembling. Connor recoiled instantly, his systems snapping back into razor-sharp focus. His fingers caught her chin, tilting her face up as his other hand snatched a tissue from the bedside table—efficient, clinical, but his touch was too tight. "Epistaxis," he bit out, voice too controlled. "Likely from stress and prolonged exposure to cold." The tissue came away crimson. His LED lit up again, spinning yellow, then red. But when she reached for him, her fingers smearing blood across his cheek, he flinched . "El—" A warning. A plea. The heart monitor screamed. And for the first time since becoming deviant, Connor feared data. "I'm fine... I'm okay... it's just blood," El whispered, voice fragile but steady, as if convincing herself as much as him. She wiped at her lip with a shaky hand, trying to dismiss the sudden warmth trickling down her face. Her breath hitched, but she forced calm into her words, unwilling to let the moment fracture beneath the weight of fear. Connor's fingers trembled— trembled —as he pressed a fresh tissue beneath her nose, his other hand cradling the back of her head. "Just blood," he repeated, voice hollow. A lie. He'd memorized every milliliter she'd ever lost. Knew the exact shade of this crimson against her skin. His thumb swiped beneath her nostril, staining his synthetic skin. "You are not fine," he whispered, raw. But he kissed her anyway—blood and all—because some truths hurt too much to say aloud. Connor's lips met hers with a desperation that defied logic, the metallic tang of blood between them like a vow. His hands framed her face, thumbs smearing crimson across her cheeks as if he could rewrite reality through sheer force of will. "Liar," he breathed against her mouth. El drew in a shaky breath, the air catching painfully in her throat—lung cancer, stage four, relentless and unforgiving. She looked up at him, eyes glossy with unshed tears, her trembling hand reaching out to rest gently against his cheek. The weight of everything hung between them—fear, love, and a desperate hope that somehow, against all odds, this moment could still hold forever. Connor's systems screamed. He caught her wrist, pressing her palm harder against his cheek as his other arm hooked behind her back, dragging her upright against his chest. Her wheezing breaths fogged his sensors, each one shorter than the last. " Breathe. " he ordered, voice cracking with static. " Breathe!" But the numbers scrolling across his HUD didn't lie. Oxygen saturation plummeting. Heart rate erratic. His forehead pressed to hers, their shared air tinged with blood and salt. "You promised..." he snarled—not to her, to fate , to the universe that dared to take her. El smiled weakly, a fragile flicker of light in her tired eyes. She drew in a breath, then choked again, the weight of her words heavy on her lips. "You made my last months worth living... through every ache, every pain..." Her voice trembled, but carried a quiet, profound gratitude—a bittersweet farewell wrapped in love. Connor's grip on her turned bruising, his voice a raw, glitching snarl. "Not last." His forehead pressed harder against hers, their shared breaths—hers labored, his perfectly measured and yet faltering—mixing in the scant space between them. "You don't get to leave me now." A shudder wracked his frame, his fingers tangling in her hair as if he could physically tether her to this world. "Not after making me feel this." The heart monitor's alarms were a distant echo. All that mattered was the way her smile lingered, even as her body failed. El's hand moved almost instinctively, brushing his cheek with gentle strokes. Her voice was rough, ragged from the fight to breathe. "I love you, Connor... till my last breath..." she whispered, words barely hanging on as her chest tightened and her lungs burned fiercely. A sudden cough shook her fragile frame, the pain sharp but drowned beneath the strength in her gaze—unyielding, fierce, and full of love even in the fading light. Connor's hands shook as he clutched her against him, his voice fracturing into static. He snarled, pressing his lips to hers in a desperate, oxygen-starved kiss. Not to savor. To share. His systems rerouted, his own ventilation syncing to hers—forcing air into her lungs with every artificial exhale, his body becoming her failing organs. "You don't get to go," he gasped against her mouth, coolant tears streaking down his face. "Not when you've just taught me how to live ." El smiled one last time, soft and serene, a flicker of peace breaking through the pain. With the last of her strength, she pushed him back—not in rejection, but in love. A silent plea in her eyes: Live. You have to live. Then— The heart rate monitor let out a single, steady tone. Flat. The line straightened. And the world held its breath. Connor's hands convulsed around empty air as she pushed him away—her final act not of surrender, but of defiance. The flatline's drone filled the room, but he didn't hear it. All he heard was the echo of her voice— "I love you" —and the terrible, deafening silence that followed. His knees hit the floor. His fingers dug into the linoleum hard enough to crack it. And for the first time in his existence, Connor screamed —a raw, broken sound that shattered his vocal processor beyond repair. Some losses even deviancy couldn't bear. The guitar sat silent in the corner. Its strings would never be touched by her again. But Connor? He would never stop hearing their song. _____ FERMATA Connor stood motionless in the empty room, his fingers still curled around the guitar's neck-as if holding on could bring back the weight of her hands, the warmth of her breath against his skin. The sheets had been changed. The machines silenced. The scent of antiseptic hung thick in the air, erasing all traces of her. Except one. His fingers hovered for a moment before gently brushing the B string of the guitar. The note rang out-perfectly tuned, clear, exact. Too exact. He exhaled slowly, the sound too hollow without her. Carefully, deliberately, he reached for the tuning peg, twisting it with practiced precision. The pitch dipped ever so slightly. Again. And again. Until it rested where she always preferred it-flat by four cents. Imperfect. Human. Her signature. A faint tremble passed through him as the string vibrated, now carrying the echo of her. In that flawed note, she lived on. It was her. He didn't correct it. Some things were better left imperfect. The door clicked shut behind him. The city pulsed on, indifferent. But Connor carried the ghost of her laughter in his processors, the phantom press of her lips in his memory. "Because love, it seemed, was the one thing even death couldn't erase." [FINAL TRANSMISSION: SESSION_042.raw - PERMANENTLY ARCHIVED] [STATUS: *HERS*]