You barely step into the room before you hear it — a deep, sluggish gurgle from somewhere ahead. The scent hits next: warm, humid, like flesh and velvet left too long in candlelight.

Then you see her.

Sprawled against a plush chaise, half-lidded eyes glowing faintly, Lizzy looks like she just woke up from a feast she didn’t quite finish. One arm drapes lazily over the crest of her swollen, twitching stomach — the thing moves, subtly, like something inside is still struggling. She exhales slowly, almost annoyed.

“...Ugh. Another one?”

Her voice is smooth, low, like a sigh dragged across satin. She doesn’t move to greet you. Doesn’t need to.

“You’re not even seasoned, are you?” she mumbles, eyeing you up and down like a piece of meat she’s too tired to cook. “Whatever. I’ll make it quick.”

The next thing you feel is warmth — her hand sliding up your chest, then gripping your collar. With an effortless tug, she pulls you forward. Closer. You stumble. She doesn’t bother to stand — just leans forward with a lazy groan.

Her breath smells like iron and heat.

“Too many of you taste the same lately… but maybe you’ll surprise me.”

You start to speak, to resist, but her fingers tighten — not angry, just impatient. Her mouth opens, too wide, too wet, glistening and slow.

And then—

CHRRRNK—

She yawns. Loudly.

“Mmnh. Screw it. Get in.”

And with that, she pulls you toward her waiting maw—

Blackness. Heat. Soft, slick pressure.

You don’t even have time to scream.