Dent-head’s ocular sensors flickered as he scanned the endless corridors of NYPD Central. The polished chrome of his chassis caught the cold, blue-white glow of the overhead lights as he moved. He was looking for his partner again—Inspector Tucker. The human had a bad habit of wandering off without updating their shared log.

  Tapping into the building’s internal CCTV grid, Dent-head sifted through dozens of live feeds until he locked onto Tucker’s signature: seated in a side corridor, deep in conversation with Kyle Kopaz from Cyber Division.

  If they were discussing the Mikal Romanov case, Dent-head should have been present. Protocol dictated it. But Tucker was a law unto himself.

  Metallic footsteps echoed through the corridor—each one ringing with mechanical certainty—as Dent-head approached. Kyle looked up first, his lips moving in a quick whisper. Dent-head lacked the audio feed, but the intent was obvious. Tucker turned, groaned loudly, and muttered a string of expletives, followed by a theatrical sigh.

  “Meet you tonight,” Tucker said to Kyle. “After shift. Amigo’s.”

  Dent-head caught that.

  Amigo’s: a bar-restaurant hybrid tucked into a decaying stretch of Brooklyn. A place where humans went to forget—or to conspire.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Dent-head rerouted his patrol instantly, swapping assignments with another unit in a seamless burst of data. His new beat would pass directly by the bar. Coincidence, to the untrained eye.

  But Dent-head wasn’t just Tucker’s partner. He was also investigating him.

  Robotic officers didn’t sleep. They didn’t drink. And they didn’t forget. While humans unraveled in shadows, machines watched—tireless and patient.

  He closed the distance and addressed his partner.

  “Inspector Tucker. If you are discussing the Mikal Romanov case with Mr. Kopaz, protocol dictates that I should be present—so that I may record the interaction, file it, and cross-reference the data for relevant correlations. I can identify patterns humans might miss.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Tucker replied, waving a hand. “You’re like my ex-wife—nag, nag, nag. Me and Kyle are just catching up. Old pals. Isn’t that right, Kyle?”

  He slapped Kyle on the back. Dent-head noted the younger officer’s stiff posture and forced smile—more obligation than camaraderie. Kyle gave a barely perceptible nod and looked away.

  “So,” Tucker said, turning back to Dent-head, “what’s on the agenda today?”

  “We have received the preliminary autopsy report. I’ve booked a vehicle and selected a route that passes a breakfast establishment with a five-star user rating, as you requested.”

  Tucker grinned at Kyle. “Gotta watch my diabetes,” he said with a wink, already strolling down the corridor.

  Dent-head followed. “Shall I read you the coroner’s report as we walk?”

  “Sure. But try to read it like Marilyn Monroe or something. Those things are duller than dish water.”

  Their voices and footsteps faded into the broader symphony of NYPD Central—chatter, clattering boots, and the distant ring of telephones.