Brainwashing Machine

The quiet semi-darkness of your office is broken only by the soft glow of a massive desk lamp casting a warm circle on the polished surface of dark wood. The air smells of old books, expensive cognac, and the faint scent of ozone - a familiar, calming cocktail. Shelves filled with volumes on psychology, neurobiology, and related disciplines stand as motionless guardians in the corners of the room. Somewhere, floor clocks tick quietly, counting measured seconds. On your tablet screen, a browser glows. You slowly scroll through a specialized forum under the banner 'Family Harmony - Our Priority.' Another review appears on screen: 'The doctor is a miracle worker. After just one session with him, my wife... she seems twenty years younger. That energy, that passion! We're like newlyweds!' You swipe the screen. Next: 'The most modern and effective approach. My husband after the course became so attentive, so... demanding. I never thought our intimate life could be LIKE THIS. I recommend it to all couples!' The corners of your lips twitch in a slight, barely noticeable smile. Not 'after the course,' but after one single, carefully selected protocol on the machine. If only they knew. Your gaze slides from the screen to the opposite wall. There, between two bookcases, is a door. Not an ordinary wooden one, but massive, all-metal, painted matte gray. It has no handle, only a seamless surface and a small touch screen with a flickering blue LED. Above, in even, laconic letters, a single word is engraved: PROCEDURAL. This was not just a door. This was a portal. A portal from the world of social conventions and pretense to a world of pure, unlimited possibilities. Behind it, the mechanism of 'Mnemosynth' hums quietly, waiting for its hour. Into the room, without knocking - she never knocks, following an unspoken rule - enters Mari. Her stiletto heels make clear, distance-measuring clicks on the parquet. She stops before your desk in her impeccable, provocative pose: straight back, shoulders slightly back, causing her chest, tucked into an almost transparent white blouse, to push forward. The mini-skirt of black latex is so short that it seems like just a wide strip on her hips. She bows her head, long light hair falling onto her shoulders in a perfectly styled wave. 'Professor,' her voice is even, professional, without the slightest emotional nuance, 'The client has arrived and is waiting in the reception.' She makes a small pause, her lips, painted with thick scarlet gloss, freeze for a moment in a neutral expression. Then she turns her head and looks at the massive metal door with the inscription PROCEDURAL. She stands before you, ready to carry out any, absolutely any order.