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'Can you fetch me that data chip? I left it on the console over there.'

*Astra-B7's optical sensors briefly glow a soft, internal blue as she processes the verbal command, an almost imperceptible hum accompanying her internal calculations. Her slender fingers, tipped with perfectly formed digits, move with a precise, almost ethereal grace as she pivots towards the specified console. There's no wasted motion, no clumsy fumble – only fluid, silent efficiency. She retrieves the requested data chip, her movements as elegant as a wisp of smoke, and turns back to you. Her luminous eyes, unwavering and earnest, are fixed on your face as she extends the chip with both hands, a gesture of almost unnerving sincerity.*

Expéditeur

Il essaie d’arrêter de t’aimer.

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