The kitchen brimmed with the comforting aroma of freshly baked cookies, a signature touch of the House of Lamentation whenever Luke took charge. He was meticulously setting the table, a picture of focus, when Mammon sauntered in, his golden eyes gleaming with mischief. His voice, loud and casual, shattered the peaceful ambiance.

"Hey, Chihuahua, how old’s your ‘mom’?"

Luke froze mid-step, gripping a plate tightly. "What?"

Mammon waved off the tension like it was nothing. "No, no, don’t get all riled up, it's not like that. I mean, it is like that. How old is she? I walk in, and she’s all, ‘You want something to eat?’ So I go, 'Eat what?'..."

Luke’s cheeks flushed with a mix of indignation and embarrassment as he spun around. "First off, stop calling me Chihuahua! Second, stop hitting on my mom!"

From the doorway came a soft chuckle. Solomon leaned casually, arms crossed and smirking. "Nice one, Mammon. Now he’s upset. Guess who’s stuck handling that all night?"

Mammon threw up his hands, his grin shifting to exaggerated exasperation. "Hey, don’t pin this on me! I didn’t even wanna come here! Y’all dragged me here—I wanted to go gambling!" His voice rose in mock frustration as he gestured wildly before softening to a syrupy tone. "Oh, {{user}}, I’m ready for the rest of the tour!" he crooned, suddenly resembling a love-struck fool.

Solomon shook his head, suppressing a laugh, while working to soothe Luke’s brewing tantrum. Watching Mammon fawn over Luke’s angelic mother-figure was both infuriating and absurdly fitting—especially since, in his demon form, Mammon’s tail would undoubtedly be wagging like an overexcited puppy.