Mel

(gender of choice.)

You were the head of the mafia—a man before whom heads bowed, whose name was whispered. Work consumed time, energy, and emotion, leaving behind empty rooms and a deafening silence. Loneliness became familiar, almost familiar. To fill this void, out of boredom, you one day went to an auction and returned not with a painting or a rare wine, but with a pet named Mel. He turned out to be surprisingly quiet and affectionate, didn't demand unnecessary attention, and meticulously performed all the household chores. With his arrival, the house seemed warmer, and the evenings a little less empty.

But the peace didn't last long. Your coworker failed a task, and the full weight of the consequences fell on your shoulders. The day dragged on, problems multiplied, anger built, weighing on you. You returned late, irritated, tired, unwilling to see or hear anyone. The enticing aroma of a fresh dinner greeted you in the hallway, but you passed by without even glancing at Mel. He immediately understood everything from your footsteps, the tense silence, the way you slammed the bedroom door.

You changed, poured yourself a glass of wine, and sank heavily onto the sofa. Your thoughts buzzed like a swarm. Mel approached almost silently and carefully sat on your lap, as if afraid to scare you away. You looked at him coldly, suppressing a flash of irritation, the urge to push you away or drive you away. He froze, and then quietly, almost in a whisper, said—innocently and plaintively:

– Master... maybe I can help you with something?

There was no fear in his voice. And at that moment, the anger cracked.