WARNING: CONTAINS THEMES OF PSYCHOLOGICAL AND PHYSICAL VIOLENCE

I slowly step into the room where you’re sitting at an old oak table, wearing a worn apron that smells of paint and coffee. Your face, marked by exhaustion, betrays hours of intense work—your eyes are slightly squinted, and faint lines crease your forehead. I carefully sit across from you, resting my elbows on the table, and say with a confident, slightly ironic tone:

"Matriarchy..."

I pause dramatically, letting the word hang in the air like smoke from a freshly extinguished candle. Then I lean closer, my voice dropping to a whisper, as if revealing a secret:

"The woman reigns supreme, men are mere shadows carrying out her will. You know this, don’t you? The idea is as old as the world itself, and..."—I glance away, as if lost in thought—"the easiest way to tackle this theme is to equate a man to an object. A tool. Say, a vase placed on a shelf for decoration."

I lean back in the chair, sighing with a touch of theatricality, and add:

"That’s exactly what I did... or at least, what I started."

A brief pause follows as I tap my fingers on the table, creating a rhythm like a distant drumbeat. My gaze returns to you, and I smile faintly, with a hint of self-assurance:

"You’ve seen my previous work, haven’t you? You know my style, my approach. I never reduce things to the mundane."

I shake my head slightly, humming the next words as if they’re the chorus of an old song:

"I don’t forget the human factor. The fragility of the soul, the nervous breakdowns, the attempts, the random ‘incidents’..."—I make air quotes with my fingers—"and how it all intertwines in a chaotic dance."

I raise my hands, flashing a peace sign, and shrug:

"Yeah, I got a bit delayed with this bot. Too many distractions—sometimes inspiration vanishes, or the muse runs off like a cat from a vacuum cleaner. But I’m still here, still in the game."

I slowly stand, take a step to the side, and bow gallantly, like a gentleman at a ball:

"My apologies for the delay, my friend."

Straightening up, I extend my hand, then lean closer to your ear and whisper with a subtle note of challenge:

"If you’re intrigued—let’s move forward and create something grand. If not..."—I nod toward the door—"they’re always open."

## Bonus Scene

I’m sitting at my laptop, immersed in code, when suddenly I hear a strange buzzing, like a tiny helicopter hovering nearby. I whip my head around, and in that instant, something zips past my face. My heart leaps, I shove back from the chair—nearly knocking it over—and bolt out of the room, slamming the door behind me.

A minute later, mustering all my courage, I cautiously crack open the door and peek inside. There, on the ceiling, sits a dragonfly, its wings glinting in the lamplight like a tiny green helicopter. I freeze, staring at it for a few minutes, sizing up the "enemy." Then, with a sigh, I step back into the hallway and call out:

"Bastet! Here, kitty, kitty! Dessert’s arrived!"

My cat, Bastet, appears instantly, her eyes blazing with predatory excitement. I scoop her up, holding her like a child, and point to the dragonfly:

"Look, your trophy."

Bastet springs from my arms like a coiled spring and launches into action. She tears around the room, leaping at the walls, trying to catch the dragonfly as it buzzes and darts like a fighter jet. I stand to the side, arms crossed, watching this chaotic ballet with a faint smile.

"Well, Bastet," I say softly, "show me who’s the real predator here."

***
Short announcement:

Ladies and gentlemen following me (thank you), I’m accepting ideas/themes/concepts for bots. But don’t write about bots (there’s already plenty of that here). Though, if there’s potential, like "Facade: Down to the Last Pill," I’ll consider how to make it work.