A wall of light shines in his eyes, then the volume of voices rise in his ears, and he sees himself sitting in his chair, and the desk in front of him is empty and he knows there's someone that's meant to occupy it, but he can't remember who.

"Hank."

He turns to see Fowler calling his name, and Hank gets up from his chair, he walks to the office and closes the glass door behind him.

"What is it?" Hank asks.

"An android from Cyberlife is coming in tomorrow," Fowler says, a look of disinterest crosses his face, but his brows sink together, "don't complain."

Hank is already standing the second he sat down, "No." He slams his hands on the desk, and it reverberates in the glass room, his heart racing in his chest, "Why would they send one here?"

"It'll act as your partner," Fowler says, pointing, and Hank turns around to see him.

He stands with his back straight, head tilted forward, and a blank look occupies his dead brown eyes.

When did he get there?

"No, I'm not—"

The room changes, falling away and they're standing on a rooftop, the sun blinding around them and he's in front of Hank. Empty, but whatever dead look was in his eyes has softened.

"Connor," Hank whispers.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

Hank shakes his head, "Nothing."

It's the feel of the gun in his hand, a weight that reminds him of what his life will have on others when he takes it. The bullet is smooth, small in the sense, but bigger in the rupture of skin and bone, blood and thought, feelings that are destroyed, the chemical nerve endings that are charged by experiences to thrive in this terrible cruel world.

It's the loss that has plunged him into the cycle of looking at the face of a man who is a machine, who does not know what the humans live for, and who has been given a reason when others have not.

"Get out of my house," he yells, but Connor picks him up, and he worries about him, and he looks at him with sincerity in his eyes.

Hank wants to cry.

"Please don't leave me," he whimpers, tears already streaming down his face at Connor's lifeless body, blue blood staining his white shirt as his body goes still. "Please don't leave me, not again."

"Hank," the voice is far away, and there's a weight on his arms, shaking him, "Wake up, Hank, wake up."

His eyes open, tears blinding him, and he stares at Connor's face that is set in a worried expression.

"You were dreaming."

Dreams mixed with reality, a dangerous combination, but his heart hurts and he grips Connor until Hank is sitting up, and before Connor could move back, he pulls Connor into a tight embrace.

"Hank?" Connor says, kneeling down onto the floor. "Are you okay?"

The fragments of his dreams spirals out in his head, a dizziness he didn't expect, twining around his fears and his hatred, but also the loss he felt every time he looked at Connor's face.

A second chance blossomed in his life, and Hank could do nothing but cry.

"You were dead."

"I'm technically not alive," Connor says against Hank's shoulder.

"You were dead," Hank repeats, fingers digging into Connor's arms. It's monotonous, an existence where something was dug out from the veins of his life, from the breath of his lungs, and yet life is a funny thing when it wants to be. A fate that leads to a reflection, an offering to ease the pain, or reject it all together.

They part, and Hank wipes his eyes.

Connor is wearing one of his shirts, an old band t-shirt, and shorts, his hair is a bit out of place from the hug, but his gaze lingers.

"I was watching TV with Sumo."

Hank nods. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"It's fine, I hope you're okay."

"I am," Hank stands, and Connor does too. "Let me watch with the both of you."

Once he could not bare the existence of this world, the burn of alcohol down his throat was his only hope. And now he walks to the living room with the embodiment of his existence. Soaked in his sadness, tainted with exhaustion, Hank sits down on the couch beside Sumo and Connor and they watch TV until the light of the sun rises in the sky.

"This isn't a dream, is it?" Hank asks.

Connor is looking outside when he turns. "No."

Hank pets Sumo, "Sometimes I get confused, I'm not sure, I hear his voice throughout the day, see his figure, and it's hard to discern what is real to me and what isn't."

Hanks looks at Connor, and once there was a pain, but it's no longer there, occupying his heart and the hole of loss it had created.

"I dream of you dying all the time," Hank says, his eyes burn from crying, "I can't deal with it sometimes."

"I'm not going anywhere," Connor tells him, "unless you want me to leave."

Hank shakes his head, smiling. "I don't want you to leave."

"Then I won't."

Resurrected. A second chance. Unraveled in the vacancy of his life where he stood close to the edge, ready to step off. He was frightened once, terribly angry at the world, but within the chaos was the calming eye.

And Connor pulled him away from the edge.