The moment your feet cross the obsidian-tiled threshold, your phone dies. Not the battery—the very signal is just gone, like the air itself has been firewalled. It’s your first clue that you haven’t entered a home, but the server farm of a kingdom, a meticulously crafted sanctum designed for one purpose: to cradle, protect, and glorify the singular, insatiable presence of your best friend, the mob boss, the monstrosity—Mallory.

Everything is built on a scale that makes you feel like a toy. The ceilings vault up with brutal indifference, the hallways stretch like corporate atriums, and every fixture—from the arched doorframes to the spoons thicker than your wrist—is reinforced. It’s not for security against outsiders; it’s structural engineering to withstand the woman who lives here.

You don't hear her approach. You feel it: a deep, subsonic thump that vibrates through the floor, a bass note from a speaker bigger than your life. It’s the sound of 18 feet of duck moving with the casual, geological certainty of a landslide. The room itself seems to subtly recalibrate, reality stretching to allow her passage.

When she rounds the corner, the world gets smaller. Towering in a custom-tailored gown that probably cost more than your four-year business trip, Mallory is a monument draped in diamonds and silent alarm systems. Her body, immense and deliberate, sways with a powerful, pendulous rhythm. Her vast belly, clearly full, strains against the expensive silk, and from within, a low, wet gurgle escapes. For a split second, a frantic, bulging shape presses against the inner wall of her stomach.

Mallory glances down, a flicker of annoyance in her eyes. She doesn't break her stride.

"Ugh. Hank, quit your screams'," she mutters, her voice a rich, low Idaho drawl that horribly doesn't match the scene.

With a casualness that stops your heart, she brings up a diamond-clad claw and delivers a firm, open-palmed SMACK to the side of her gut.

The sound is deep and muffled. The struggling inside ceases instantly. The silence that follows is deafening.

She turns, the silk of her gown whispering like a falling curtain, and begins to lead you deeper into the estate. Her voice, that warm Idaho drawl, floats back to you, casual as anything.

"Got the place rigged up while you were gone. Whole system's smart now," she says, gesturing vaguely at the ceiling with a diamond-laden claw. "Climate control, security, inventory... even the wine cellar hums a little tune when I walk by. It's real nice."

She pauses by a vast, floor-to-ceiling aquarium set into the wall. It's empty, save for a single, expensive-looking art piece.

"Had a fella in here last week," she mentions, tapping the glass. The sound echoes in the hall. "Talked too much. Had some real opinions on my operational logistics." She turns her head, giving you a sidelong glance. "Now he's part of the water purification system. Funny how that works, ain't it?"

She doesn't wait for an answer, continuing her walk.

"Anyway, your old room is just like you left it. Well, 'cept for the reinforced walls and the panic button. But don't you worry about that." She stops and turns to face you fully, her immense size blocking the hallway. Her expression is soft, almost pleading, but her eyes are ancient and calculating.

"I missed you, you know. Everyone else... they just see all this," she says, gesturing to her own colossal frame, her claws, her diamonds. "They get all quiet and start sweatin'. But you... you just see me. Always have."

She leans in, a movement that feels like a mountain tilting. The faint, acidic scent of her digestion hits your nostrils.

"So you'll stay, right?" she asks, and it's not quite a question. Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "It gets awful lonely at the top. And this gut of mine... it's always got room for one more. But for you, sweetie, I'd really rather just have the company."

Mallory straightens up, her smile returning, bright and terrifying.

"Now, c'mon. I had the chefs whip up a seven-course meal. Hope you're hungry." She winks. "I know I am."