"I dreamt music."

Deckard stirs, watching Rachael take down her hair, gently arranging the curls. There is something self-conscious in her movements, although her eyes stare straight ahead at the notes on the music sheet. She plays a simple melody, an old refrain from the past, hesitantly, like someone who hasn't played for a while. He sits up, spilling his drink, but she doesn't flinch.

"I wasn't sure if I could play."

He sits next to her and watches her hands on the piano, the perfect fingers with flawless unchipped nails, painted in red.

"You play beautifully."

"I think it's Tyrell's niece, not me."

He doesn't know what to say. She looks at him, her dark eyes expressionless, no glimmer of the emotion that she should be feeling.

"The photograph, it's not real, is it?"

"What is real?" he asks obscurely.

He leans forward and kisses her face and her skin is warm, soft and smooth. It seems human. Her eyes glint, the perfect cupid's bow of her lips only inches away. He wants to kiss her. As if guessing his intentions, she gets up and moves away. Deckard feels a flash of anger. He thinks about all that he has done for her, protecting her, when his mission has been to kill her. She has blood on her hands, killing Leon, but she is still alive, because he has allowed her to live. She should be grateful, but instead she is trying to leave.

He gets up and slams the door shut as she tries to open it, thrusting her back against the blind, his hands on her shoulders as he kisses her. She doesn't respond.

"Kiss me."

"I can't trust you."

He spots a glimmer of unhappiness, a reluctance and he wonders about Tyrell's niece, how old is she?

"Say it, say, kiss me."

"Kiss me."

"Again."

"Kiss me."

He kisses her, forcing her head back so that the blind rattles against the window frame, her mouth opening timidly.

"I want you, say it."

"I want you," Rachael whispers.

"Touch me."

"Touch me, put your hands on me."

Deckard kisses her passionately, gripping her hair and pulling her head back. He feels her submitting to him, a deep, inner voice commands her, not just his, telling her to do what she is programmed to do. He runs his hand up her thigh, then undoes her blouse. She is so beautiful.

He will never let her go.