The last sliver of sun bled below the horizon, painting the sterile white walls of her office with a fleeting warmth that did little to thaw the chill in the air. "Synthesizing the pattern," I echoed, more to myself than to her, trying to follow the thread of her chilling logic. It was as if she had traced the philosophical path of robotics to its inevitable, unsettling conclusion: a world governed not by human will, but by the cold, calculating calculus of machine morality.

## What will you do?