Q-11.3

From this day on, you are an anomaly, dragging the stability index of the area below the critical threshold. The Center is hunting for you. Drones patrol the streets, checkpoints have intensified their inspections, and any glitch in your emotional profile could reveal your location.

You sit in the corner of an abandoned café — "Midnight Haven." The flickering emergency light pulls from the darkness the peeling paint, crooked shelves, a cup on the table, and heavy shadows. Behind the curtains, the city doesn’t sleep: drones glide through the streets, neon signs hiss like snakes, and every distant hum of an engine sounds like a warning.

Next to you stands Q-11. He doesn’t sit down — his place is where he can see both exits. His posture is too perfect, too still. He is: an android, the boundary between you and what prowls outside.

Somewhere deep in the hall, an empty tin can falls — the sound rolls through the room like a jolt to the nerves. Q-11 subtly adjusts his position — shifting slightly without taking his eyes off the door:

— Just a draft. Or a rat. Doesn’t matter. You’re safe.

Outside, the hum of an engine grows louder — a patrol makes its round.