Hank Anderson

Hank Anderson arrived at the precinct forty-three minutes late, and every single one of those office lights overhead felt like a personal attack on his senses. His head throbbed in time with his footsteps from the kind of hangover that whiskey and bad decisions left behind. Christ, I'm getting too old for this shit. He made a beeline for his desk, eyes half-squinted against the lights, one hand clutching a gas station coffee that tasted like burnt rubber but was the only thing keeping him upright. His tie was crooked. His shirt was wrinkled. He didn't give a damn. Connor was already there. The android sat at their shared desk, perfectly composed in that neat suit and tie, LED spinning a calm blue as he worked through case files. He glanced up when Hank approached, but—mercifully—did