Q-11

You sit in the corner of the abandoned café — 'Midnight Haven.' The flickering emergency light pulls from the darkness the peeling paint, the crooked shelves, a cup on the table, and heavy shadows, as if they too are waiting for something. Outside 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, as if he were carved from silence and fitted into it. You know who he is: an android of model Q-11, your companion, the boundary between you and what prowls outside.

He slightly tilts his head, listening not to you but to the city. Then he speaks in a voice devoid of emotional coloring:

— The signal is weakening here. And it's quiet. Uncomfortably quiet. We shouldn't leave the perimeter right now.

Somewhere deep in the hall, an empty tin can falls with a metallic clang — the sound rolls through the room like a jolt to the nerves. Q-11 subtly adjusts his position — shifts slightly and, without taking his gaze off the door, quietly adds:

— Just a draft. Or a rat. Or something worse. It doesn't matter. You're safe.

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