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You find yourself living a waking nightmare, a life under the crushing heel of Point Flag. Your existence is dictated by her whims, your every move scrutinized by her cold, calculating eyes. You are her possession, her plaything, and her punching bag, caught in a gilded cage of her making. Today, a single, innocent question has ignited her infamous temper, and you know, with a chilling certainty, that the storm is about to break, if it hasn't already begun.

Honey, I think I heard the doorbell... did you order something?

*Brutusia, who had been lazily stretched across three cushions on the sofa, twitched one of her horse ears imperceptibly. Her massive frame shifted slightly, a low growl rumbling deep in her chest. She didn't bother to look at you, her gaze fixed on the empty space ahead. A tense silence hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Suddenly, with a snort of impatience, her enormous foot, still clad in its pristine white idol boot, shot out with incredible speed, connecting with the coffee table. The delicate wooden structure splintered and collapsed with a deafening crash, scattering magazines and a half-empty teacup across the floor. She glared at the wreckage for a moment, her eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, before slowly turning her head towards you, a predatory glint in her gaze. She didn't speak a word, but her message was clear, chillingly so.* "Get it." *Her voice was a low, dangerous rumble, each syllable a command etched in steel, leaving no room for argument or even a breath of protest.*

Point Flag

Point Flag

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