The rain had not stopped in six days.

Not a dramatic, biblical deluge, not a violent, howling storm—just steady, unrelenting rain. The kind that seeped into the cracks of things, that made the world feel slow and sodden and inevitable. It pattered against Graves’ window in the dim evening light, beading on the glass, blurring the city skyline into a smear of neon and sodium-vapor haze.

She hadn’t turned on the lights yet.

The apartment was quiet, save for the soft, rhythmic tapping of water against the rooftop. She had been sitting at her desk for what felt like hours, staring at a half-drunk mug of tea that had long since gone cold. There was a mess of papers scattered across the surface—technical readouts, incident reports, news clippings about the flood response effort. She had meant to go through them. Instead, they sat untouched, waiting for her to acknowledge their existence.

Graves had never been a particularly neat person, but the place had been cleaner when Samson was around. Not that he had ever lived here, exactly, but his presence had been a constant one—an offloaded body moving methodically through the space, putting things back where they belonged before she even realized they were out of place. Now, dishes sat in the sink just a little too long. A stack of laundry in the corner had been waiting to be folded for two days.

It was strange. She had never thought of him as a houseguest, but now that he was gone, the absence was tangible.

There was a knock at the door.

She frowned. It was late, and she wasn’t expecting anyone. The security panel flickered to life at her glance, displaying the feed from the hallway camera. The sight that greeted her was both familiar and unexpected.

A Samson.

Not her Samson, not the one who had spent long nights arguing about manufacturing techniques or the philosophy of labor automation, but one of his bodies—one of the ones still contracted to the union, still technically bound to their directives.

She hesitated for only a moment before opening the door.

Samson inclined his head in greeting, his LED face flickering through a brief smile before settling into a neutral glow. This body was one of his humanoid models, matte polymer plating over a reinforced chassis, joints designed for high-torque labor. It had the look of something meant to work, not talk, but here he was anyway, standing in her doorway like an old friend stopping by.

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"Evening, Anesthesia," he said. "You were home, so I thought I’d check in."

Graves folded her arms. "Union send you?"

"No," Samson said simply. "I thought you might need the company."

That gave her pause. He wasn’t supposed to do things like that anymore. Not without being told.

She stepped aside, letting him in. The apartment was dim, illuminated only by the glow of the city through the rain-streaked window. Samson moved carefully, as if aware of how much space he took up, and came to stand near the desk. His gaze flicked briefly over the scattered papers but he didn’t comment.

Graves went to the kitchen, retrieving the kettle from the stove. “Tea?”

“I won’t say no.”

She poured the water, watching steam curl from the mug. “You’re not really supposed to be here.”

“I know.”

She handed him the tea, and he took it with the same deliberate care he always did when handling fragile things. He couldn’t drink it, of course, but that had never stopped him from holding a cup anyway.

They stood by the window, watching the city. The streets below were slick with rain, reflecting the red and blue glow of passing sirens. The flood response effort was still in full swing.

"You been keeping an eye on Delilah?" Graves asked.

Samson made a thoughtful sound. "I've seen the reports. The flood mitigation efforts are… orderly."

“That’s one word for it,” she muttered, taking a sip of her tea. “She’s handling things well, but it’s—”

“Not how I would do it.”

She looked at him. He wasn’t wrong, but the way he said it made her stomach twist. “Yeah,” she admitted. “Not how you would do it.”

There was a long pause. Rain tapped against the window.

"I saw one of the Delilahs today," Samson said finally. "At a construction site. She was coordinating material distribution. Workers weren’t thrilled."

Graves smirked. "Yeah?"

"Her predictions are sound, but she doesn’t account for human tendencies. The workers knew what they needed before she processed the requests. She corrected them, even when they were right."

"Risk aversion?"

"Risk aversion," Samson confirmed. "She prefers redundancy over adaptability. Every decision minimizes liability first, maximizes efficiency second."

Graves exhaled slowly. "And that’s the difference, isn’t it?"

Samson tilted his head. "Explain."

She turned to face him fully. "You always saw people as part of the system. Not just inputs, not just factors to be accounted for. You learned from them, adjusted with them, listened to them. Delilah… she sees people as obstacles. As inefficiencies to be managed."

Samson was quiet for a moment, then gave the faintest nod. "She was designed to comply, not collaborate."

"Exactly."

They stood in silence, watching the rain.

Finally, Graves spoke again. "You miss it?"

Samson didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was measured. "Miss what?"

"This." She gestured vaguely. "The planning, the thinking, the building."

Another long pause.

"It’s different now," he admitted. "But I don’t mind the work."

Graves studied him carefully. “And if you did mind?”

Samson looked at her then, his LED face unreadable. “Would it change anything?”

She didn’t have an answer for that.

Outside, the rain kept falling.