Bryan's expression instantly crumbled into something resembling a kicked puppy. Neville instantly had goosebumps.
"Hope," Bryan said, as if bargaining for his life, "you don't understand. Robots don't understand food. It just... produces it. It's cold, mechanical, and soulless."
Neville wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin. Across from him, Grayson continued eating in silence. However, the upturned corner of his lips exposed him.
"Stewart," Neville began with courtesy and underlying exasperation, "since you like to eat made with real ingredients, with your high salary, you can probably afford to hire a chef to cook for you."
"But I don't know if they would even cook as well as you do." Bryan's eyes held a fervent gleam. "If the robot couldn't even replicate your food perfectly, what more of a random chef?"
Grayson looked like he was nodding in agreement.
