"Good evening, gentlemen. Fancy bumping into you," Dent-head said as Tucker and Kyle stepped out of the restaurant doorway. Both men turned, slightly startled.

  "What are you doing here, Dent-head?" Tucker asked, the words spat more than spoken.

  "Just on the beat. One of the patrol bots malfunctioned, so I took its place," Dent-head said.

  White lies weren’t a glitch—they were hardwired into his code. Justified as a tactic to outsmart criminals, but controversial from day one.

  "Of course. Coincidence," Tucker said, voice thick with sarcasm.

  "You two must be good friends. Chatting on the job, now out together after hours?"

  Kyle stayed deliberately silent. He knew the bot was monitoring him—his vitals, his expressions. He could feel his heart rate climbing.

  "Yeah, we’re close. Is that against the law now?" Tucker said, turning to Kyle. "He’s having some personal issues. Looks up to me—a father figure, right, Kyle?"

  Kyle nodded with his head down, careful not to let Dent-head read his face.

  "Come on, Tucker. Let’s just go," Kyle said quietly, placing a hand on Tucker’s arm. Tucker brushed it off.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  "Perhaps I can assist," Dent-head continued. "I can switch to Counsellor Mode. I have specialized programs for addressing the emotional and psychological stress experienced by NYPD personnel. May I ask what the matter is?"

  Tucker had downed a few too many beers. He knew the footage would be reviewed by Internal Affairs—those bastards had been hounding him for years. But this was an opportunity: a chance to mock them without risking a formal reprimand.

  "Yeah, sure. If you must know, my pal here just got married. He’s worried he can’t keep his wife happy in bed. She’s into... unconventional stuff. So he came to Jackhammer Tucker—who’s put more smiles on the female population than the entire antidepressant industry combined."

  Tucker leaned in close to Dent-head’s optics, fully aware he was being recorded.

  "Please, feel free to keep filming—though be advised, it’s technically an invasion of his privacy. That said, maybe the fine men at Internal Affairs could learn a thing or two. I hear some of them are struggling to satisfy their wives... allegedly, of course."

  Kyle’s face flushed red. His watch emitted a soft bleep—his heart rate was spiking. Without a word, he tore it off his wrist. He knew Dent-head could still access the data via the cloud. The fitness watch, a wedding gift, had essentially become a lie detector under Dent-head’s hacking—at least he’d had the sense to disable the microphone.

  "Leave it, Tucker!" Kyle snapped, half shout, half plea.

  "That won’t be necessary," Dent-head said calmly. "Have a good night. See you tomorrow, Inspector Tucker."

  With that, the bot turned and resumed his patrol, leaving Tucker and Kyle standing under the harsh neon glow, waiting for their autonomous cab as an argument broke out between them.

  Dent-head logged the interaction. They were both lying—biometric readings and facial micro-expressions confirmed it. But even more telling was the flaw in Tucker’s story: he clearly wasn’t close to Kyle. The advice about sexually satisfying a wife? A blatant fabrication.

  Dent-head had already checked Kyle’s HR file.

  He’d recently married a man.

  Kyle was gay.