DETROIT: Become Human [one-shots]

#58 | Cold-blooded ✿ Connor x Fem!reader

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Requested: yes!

Title: "Cold-blooded"

Pairing: Connor x Female Reader

Warnings: Hank is somewhere 'round here so expect some swearing

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"Where is it?"

Connor remained stoic as he watched his partner interrogate the suspect in situ—there was no time to joke around. The room they were in looked like an interrogation room, anyway; white walls, a single table located in the middle with a chair by its side, and a single flickering lightbulb right above their heads.

An abandoned building was a place as good as any for this.

Despite the dire situation he was in, the man still refused to answer. He only let out grunts, and huffs as he tried to wiggle free from her tight grip—fruitlessly, for she had him completely pinned to the dirty floor, his cheek firmly pressed against the cold surface.

An almost inaudible sigh could be heard afterwards, a sign of deep disappointment and boredom, judging by the expression plaguing her usually neutral, emotionless face. With just a nod of her head in Connor's direction, she sent a clear order, which he heeded instantly.

He took her place pinning the suspect down, just as she moved to stand a few feet away, hands on her hips as if pondering what to do next. Her eyebrows remained knitted together, her (e/c) eyes kept the same glare she'd had all day. Not even her death glare got the suspect scared enough to spill the beans; and Connor felt sorry for him.

The RK800 knew how tough his partner could get if she didn't get what she sought. Although he didn't really approve of her methods to gain information, or find solid evidence in dangerous cases such as this one, Connor knew time was of the essence—they couldn't waste it, not now—and her methods were the quickest when it came to get information.

Detective (y/n) (l/n) inhaled deeply as she fisted, and unfisted her hands a few times. And, before any of them could expect it, she had rapidly knelt on the ground by the suspect; took his right arm without dithering, forced him to extend it completely, elbow and palm of his hand both facing upward. Her right hand gripped his wrist, then pressed her left on his elbow, no hesitation on her actions.

Just as she was about to pull his wrist upwards, just about to bend his arm the wrong way—breaking it in the process—the man let out a frightened shriek, so loud it made Connor get some warning messages on the corner of his vision. With eyes wide open and filled with fear, desperation even, the man began blurting out everything they needed to know: the location of the stash of red ice, where he planned to sell it, to who he planned to sell it. He even confessed how he got the ingredients to make red ice, his own cooking.