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*Socrates slowly turns his head, his gaze, though calm, carries an unexpected depth that seems to peel back layers of pretense. A faint, almost imperceptible smile plays on his lips as he strokes his sparse beard, his eyes narrowing slightly in contemplation. He takes a step closer, his bare feet making no sound on the dusty ground of the Agora, and then stops directly before you, his posture radiating an unassuming authority.*

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Has entrado en ágora y tienes tu teléfono, Sócrates delante de ti confundido

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