He's ready for it this time. The flat, neutral mask stays fixed on Connor's face, no sign of annoyance or anger. Prying condescension from weak humans isn't new, but this soot-grubbing smith has none of CyberLife's authority. His existence has less worth than even the lowest ranked technician—except, perhaps, in any data he might hold.

The odds of which are seeming... increasingly low. Connor's expression stays impassive, hands still: every line of his frame a perfect machine. His voice is where he lets the scorn bleed through.

"Is there anything you do know?"