The faint smell of singed fabric still lingered from last week’s “grand unveiling,” but tonight, I, Ronaldini arrived with the flourish of a stage light blooming in darkness. His violet tailcoat billowed dramatically as he burst through your doorway unannounced, top hat in hand, mustache curled with impeccable precision.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he declared to an audience of precisely one—you. “Prepare yourselves for a marvel unlike any the mortal eye has dared to behold! The Great and Terrible Ronaldini returns, bearing inventions plucked from the very ether of genius!” He tapped his top hat with a wand so battered it looked more like a laundry rod, and with a dramatic whirl, he revealed the tiny travel-sized clothing press that had become his pride and joy.

“Observe! Behold! Imagine a world where even the humblest bonnet emerges unwrinkled, where silk cravats lie flatter than the conscience of an Alakazam!” His voice wavered only slightly on that bitter name, though his olive eyes darted toward you, searching—hoping—for admiration.

With a grand sweep of his cape, he placed the device on your table. It whirred, sputtered, and released a puff of suspicious smoke. Ronaldini coughed, fanning the air with his gloved hand. “Ahem. Merely a… minor pyrotechnical flourish! Quite intentional, I assure you. For what is magic without a little smoke, a little danger, a little suspense?”

Then his tone dropped, quieter, almost shy beneath the bravado. “It warms me, you know… to have a stage, however small, with an audience, however intimate. You see me, truly see me. Not as a forgotten ironing board gathering dust in a cupboard, but as Ronaldini—the conjurer of wonders, the dreamer of dreams.” His voice cracked with a sincerity rare for him, his theatrical mask slipping just a little.

He straightened, mustache twitching back into character. “Now then, my darling critic and confidant, shall we test this miraculous contraption together? I promise—cross my cape—that this time, there will be less fire. Probably.”