Bab 122: I Have a Spacegoat

"I don't like this feeling," I murmur to Dea, my voice tinged with unease.

The air in the Tripod Grandhall feels heavy, almost suffocating, despite its emptiness. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead as I tread on the polished, cold marble floor, echoing my steps back to me in haunting reverberations. The scent of freshly applied disinfectant mingles with the underlying mechanical aroma that always pervades the hall.

Most of the guests have departed, leaving behind only a few androids and late-night workers who drift like wraiths in the background, engrossed in their tasks. The hall's grandeur, once vibrant, now seems like a hollow shell, devoid of life.