***
At precisely 8:30, we made our grand entrance into the dining room, summoned by one of the maids who had dutifully called us from our chambers.
We took our seats side by side, like obedient schoolchildren at a stern teacher's desk.
Luna, in all her regal glory, perched at the head of the table. Her fingers were interlaced, elbows propped on the table, chin resting upon her hands – the very picture of a Bond villain contemplating world domination.
Arle was absent, having fled the premises on some mysterious errand.
Lucy was here with his presence. As I looked at the scene, it struck me that both Luna and Lucy exuded an aura of 'S-grade alpha' energy.
They were the apex predators of the social jungle, and I was but a mere gazelle in their midst.
'Like mother, like son!' I mused inwardly, feeling both hilarious and slightly terrified for a second.
I studiously avoided making eye contact with Luna, her sly expression promising mischief that I wasn't sure I was prepared to handle.
Instead, I focused on Amelia's hand on the table, as if it held the secrets of the universe rather than just breakfast.
"Well, well! Deploying that sexy alpha-omega technique already, are we? My, my, such rapid progress in your relationship. At this rate, I might need to start knitting tiny booties!"
Luna's eyes were shining stars as she fixed her eyes on Amelia. "But let me make one thing crystal clear: if you hurt her, I'll make sure you never see her again. She's like a little daughter to me... Capisce?"
"Oh, go kick rocks!" Amelia eloquently replied, brandishing her middle finger with the copy of disgruntled swan.
I sat there, mouth agape, doing a remarkable impression of a goldfish.
Amelia, the queen of monosyllabic communication, had just said a curse word - a rarer sight than a unicorn riding a rainbow.
Meanwhile, Luna's threat warmed my heart like a cozy blanket, though I hadn't expected to be cast in the role of her surrogate daughter.
"Fufufu~~ Close your mouth, dear. You'll catch flies." Luna chuckled. "Don't be scared like a cat."
"I won't force you to call me 'Mom' or anything equally traumatizing. Choose whatever title tickles your fancy. Just remember, my family is stuck with you now - like gum on a shoe, but in a good way."
With a headmaster's smile, she waved to the waiters, who approached with our food, probably thinking what circus he stumbled into.
"Just one plate, please." Amelia said nonchalantly, As the waiters placed a single player before me. To my surprise, she didn't take any food for herself. Instead, she sidled up close, her chair practically melding with mine.
Just like a seasoned chef, she began cutting the meat into bite-sized pieces. My eyebrows shot up as she raised a forkful to my lips.
"Open wide." Amelia cooed.
'Is this the legendary girlfriend experience everyone talks about?' I thought, my heart doing a little jig. 'If so, I'm never letting her go!'
As I accepted the morsel, my laughter subsided into a contented hum. Who knew being fed could be so... Romantic?
Meanwhile, Lucy and Luna sat across from us, their faces darkening like storm clouds.
I am oblivious to the rising tension. 'If looks could kill, I'd be six feet under. Why do they look like I just kicked their puppies?'
Once the plate was clean and my stomach full, Lucy and Luna fixed me with serious stares that could freeze lava.
Then, in a plot twist worthy of a soap opera, Lucy took the initiative for the first time.
"Iris, We need to talk." Luna's voice dripped with faux sweetness, "We have found the entire gang and their illustrious leader who... shall we say, 'inconvenienced' you."
"Their families, all bankrupt now, courtesy of Mom's special touch. It's amazing what a determined mother can do with a few phone calls and creative accounting."
Not to be outdone, Luna chimed in with all the boredom of someone offering tea options, "They're currently enjoying an all-expenses-paid stay in my secret underground room. So, what's your pleasure?"
"... A face-to-face chat or perhaps something more... permanent like killing?"
My mind flashed to Trump and his merry band of miscreants.
Despite my swiss cheese memory, I distinctly recalled Trump as the mastermind behind Mia's ordeal. My face contorted into what I can only think was an expression worthy of a Picasso painting.
Thank the heavens for my newfound goddess status and life experience.
I managed to channel my inner zen master and fixed Luna with a stare that could've frozen Hell itself.
"Just point me in their direction," I said, my voice eerily calm. "I'll handle this... delicate matter personally."
I wisely refrained from inquiring about the extent of Luna's family influence. Her records had been deleted more thoroughly than socks in a laundromat, a mystery that even the ever-knowledgeable Amelia couldn't crack.
Amelia, bless her clingy heart, grabbed my hand.
"I'm coming with you." She declared, leaving no room for argument. I half expected her to pull out matching 'Partners in Crime' t-shirts.
Luna stood up, cool as a cucumber in a freezer. "Right this way to Hotel Vengeance. It's conveniently located in the basement of this very house. Who needs an Uber when revenge is just a few steps away?"
As we were about to begin a mission named Mia's Retribution, I couldn't help but picture if I should have purchased popcorn for this show.
After all, nothing says 'justice on the plate' quite as tasty as a basement full of karma, right?
***
In the fashionable black room comes complete with a single, there was a flickering lightbulb - perfect for those moody, introspective moments of regret.
It have thoughtfully outfitted the space with a delightful array of torture tools, guaranteed to make even the most hardened criminal squirm.
It's like a twisted IKEA showroom, where every item has a sinister purpose.
In this cozy little corner of hell, we find our esteemed guests - a motley crew of five young adults, each teetering on the precipice of their 18th birthday.
"Ahhh! My head hurts!" Our star of the show, the illustrious Trump, finally has his conscious back.
With the glazed eyes of a seasoned drug enthusiast and the pallor of someone as they're in deep trouble, he takes in his surroundings.
"Where... am I?" Trump was full of horror and confusion.
His loyal followers - two ladies and every man (because why discriminate?) - are already in various stages of panic, like a group of cats at a dog show.
From one of her VIP seats - a state-of-the-art electric chair, complete with a shocking helmet accessory - one of the females pipes up, "B-Boss, you're awake! Where are we?"
Her nervous sentence suggests she's not entirely thrilled with the seating arrangements just like everyone.
'Last night…' Trump, exercising his last two functioning brain cells, recall the previous night's escapades. Ah yes, the bar, the drinks, the party - a classic tale of debauchery.
Being the self-proclaimed Alpha he is, Trump had been living his best life, on the verge of a threesome with two Omega sexy girls.
It was all going swimmingly - the girls were down to their skivvies, looking like Victoria's Secret models at an apocalypse-themed photoshoot.
They'd even offered him a thoughtful 'no-pregnancy' cocktail.
'How considerate!' Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth (or in this case, two scantily clad Omegas), Trump had eagerly downed the drink.
And then... lights out. His last coherent memory? The Omegas triumphantly roared, "Mission successful, Miss Luna."
As the gravity of the situation sinks in, our hapless prisoners are left to ponder their choices and wonder if perhaps, just perhaps, they should have stayed home and watched Netflix instead.
But hey, hindsight is 20/20, especially when you're strapped to a torture device in a basement of horrors.
"Oh, You are awake, my old friends!"