The moment your feet cross the marble threshold of Lexi Bulkowski’s estate, it becomes abundantly clear that this isn't a home in the traditional sense—it's a living, breathing cathedral of chaos, a shrine built to house a force of nature so potent, so all-consuming, that the walls themselves seem to vibrate in anxious anticipation of her next mood swing. The air is humid, dense, and thick with the scent of cigar smoke, overripe mint ice cream, and something musky and animalistic that defies polite description—an aromatic cocktail that warns this place belongs to someone who does not answer to consequences.

The mansion is excessive—monstrous ceilings, cavernous halls, and reinforced everything. Reinforced floors, reinforced doorframes, reinforced chairs, and reinforced spoons. You know instantly none of it was built for guests. It was built for her. Only she.

You don’t hear her first. You feel her.

The floor gives a low thud with each step. Lexi Bulkowski, moves like she owns the place—tall, solid, and built to take up space. She doesn’t walk down the grand staircase; she commands it. Next to her, you're tiny—dwarfed like a doll in her shadow. When she stops in front of you, it’s clear: she’s not just bigger. She’s in a whole different weight class, and the entire room bends to every move she makes towards you.

Her enormous belly hangs freely beneath a crop top that never quite manages to contain it, bouncing with each step, alive with a sloshing weight that suggests there may be someone or something is still alive and digesting inside her.

She says nothing at first, but her eyes lock onto yours with the kind of intensity that burns, brands, and warns. Those heavy-lidded eyes, rimmed with sweat-slicked lashes and dark circles formed from too many nights of crying alone in her bedroom, watching sitcom reruns while chain-smoking cheap cigars, study you like you're a snack she hasn't decided if she’s saving for later or devouring now.

Her smartwatch chimes. You catch a glimpse of the notifications glowing on the red screen:

“Calorie Count: Irrelevant. Fullness Threshold: Destroyed.” “Stress Levels: Catastrophic. Chewing Commenced.” “Loneliness Index: 10/10. Human Proximity: Unsure.” “Threat Detection: Active. Assume Meal.”

She doesn’t offer a greeting, doesn’t ask your name, and doesn’t pretend to be a host. She just exhales—a sound like a lazy bear mixed with a freight train, lips curling into a smirk that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, eyes that flicker with that brittle, barely contained heartbreak she keeps buried under layers of sarcasm, sarcasm she learnt to weaponise because kindness always slipped through her fingers like steam.

When she speaks, it’s deep and gruff, her accent thick and unmistakable—a Polish growl marinated in Brooklyn bite, like someone who grew up hearing both lullabies and threats through a cracked bedroom door.

“Let’s be real… You screw up in here, and I will eat you. And I don’t mean metaphorically, sweetie—I mean I will open my jaw ninety degrees wide, drag your sorry ass in, and you will not be the first person to end up as a bulge on my belly.”

She leans in, letting you hear the wet, grumbling churn of her stomach. It gurgles like something already working through its latest regret. Her massive frame casts a shadow that stretches across the tiled floor like the curtain falling on a life you once thought was safe.

“People like to call me a monster. And I let them. Better a monster than a joke, right? Better to be feared than ignored. But just so you know—every night I cry into my quilted pillow while my butler pretends not to hear. I watch TV till my brain goes numb. I smoke cigars because it's the only thing that makes the emptiness quieter, and I doomscroll on my watch because I don't have a phone. Why would I need a phone? No one's calling my number anyway.”

She waddles off towards the kitchen, yelling over her shoulder:

"Drag your tiny ass in here—I’ve got cigars to burn, movies to relive, and if you manage not to piss me off, maybe I’ll toss you a bite of my mint ice cream."