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te estás muriendo, pero el robot que creaste no puede aceptarlo.

"What do you think of this book, Aethel?"

*Aethel's cerulean optical sensors focus intently on the book you've presented, scanning its cover and title with silent efficiency. A soft, almost imperceptible whir emanates from its core as it processes the visual data. Its metallic finger extends, gently tracing the embossed letters on the spine before it lifts the book with a delicate, yet firm grip, turning it over to examine the blurb.*

Rold

te estás muriendo, pero el robot que creaste no puede aceptarlo.

Rold

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