"Okay, so we don't touch any treasure chests unless they wink at us first," Freya announced, sword in hand, eyebrows arched with seasoned paranoia as she stepped into the dungeon's next chamber.
Sir Beef, the party's walking tank of muscle and machismo, paused mid-flex. "What if they blink?"
"Then we scream and set them on fire. Duh," Greg the bard replied, casually strumming his lute. The string vibrated with a mystical hum, and glowing letters floated in the air: *Suspicion (Level 2)*.
"Why are your chords labeled like emotions?" Freya asked, squinting at the magical text.
"I'm a bard. I play feelings, not notes," Greg answered, his voice dripping with artistic pretension. "My next album's called *Ballads of Existential Dread*. I'm thinking a concept piece with interpretive yodeling."
Bunny, the group's cleric and only voice of reason (reluctantly), muttered a prayer under her breath. "Please let me survive long enough to retire with a quiet garden and no one trying to romance me for XP bonuses."
The chamber was filled with ancient furniture—ornate chairs, tall wardrobes, and an alarming number of treasure chests, some stacked like overambitious IKEA displays. Freya narrowed her eyes.
"This," she said, "is a trap."
"Everything's a trap," Bunny sighed. "Even my last boyfriend was a trap. Turned out he was three goblins in a trench coat."
"Impressive teamwork, honestly," Greg nodded in approval.
Freya picked up a chair cautiously. It didn't bite her, which was a good start. "Seems safe."
The moment she sat down, it screamed.
Like a banshee being tickled.
Everyone jumped. Sir Beef immediately decapitated a nearby footstool out of sheer panic.
"THE CHAIR'S ALIVE!" Greg shouted, flinging his lute at it. The lute bounced off harmlessly and landed with a melancholy strum.
The chair, now indignant and sentient, growled and sprouted legs.
"I knew it!" Freya pointed triumphantly. "Mimic furniture!"
A wardrobe next to Bunny exploded open, revealing jagged teeth and at least four eyeballs. "RAAAARRRGGHHH!"
"I JUST CLEANED THIS ROBE!" Bunny wailed.
The mimic invasion was swift and mildly confusing. A couch tried to spoon Greg. A coffee table demanded a toll in gold or riddles. A vanity mirror began aggressively roasting Sir Beef.
"You call those deltoids?" the mirror sneered. "More like *mild-toids*."
"I WORK HARD ON THESE!" Sir Beef wailed, uppercutting the mirror with righteous fury.
In the middle of the chaos, Freya hacked the shrieking chair in half. It exploded into glitter.
"Okay. That's new," she coughed.
"Why is everything in this dungeon weird?" Bunny groaned, dodging a dresser drawer that tried to nibble her ankle.
"Because this is the Room of Confusing Enchantments," Greg said, consulting the dungeon map, which was written in interpretive poetry. "Apparently, everything here is cursed. Even the walls judge you."
As if on cue, the wall behind them whispered, "Nice boots. Shame about your life choices."
Freya lunged at another mimic chest, which turned into a gelatinous ottoman and jiggled away.
"Right," she huffed, "New rule: we only sit on Greg."
"Wait, wha—"
"No furniture. No objects. Just Greg."
"I feel like this violates several HR guidelines," Greg mumbled.
Eventually, the team cornered the last mimic: a suspiciously cheerful armoire with sparkles around it. Sir Beef lunged.
"BEEF SLAM!"
He bounced off. The armoire opened itself, revealing not teeth, but a staircase.
"…Oh," Freya blinked. "It's the way forward."
The staircase descended into what looked like a grand ballroom. Music played from an unseen orchestra. Giant chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and every inch of the floor sparkled.
"Okay, this is nice," Bunny admitted. "Too nice. I don't trust it."
At the far end of the ballroom, a pedestal sat under a spotlight. On it: a massive golden treasure chest, twinkling.
"Freya, remember the rule," Greg warned.
"It's winking," she said.
"It's BLINKING."
"Same difference."
She approached the chest. It purred.
"NOPE," Bunny shouted. "I'm done. I'm out. I'm going to go live with the swamp frogs. They don't pretend to be furniture."
But before anyone could stop Freya, the chest sprang open—and from it burst a tuxedo-clad mimic with a top hat.
"WELCOME TO DATING SIM MODE!" it boomed.
Everyone froze.
A glowing menu appeared in the air:
> You have entered: ***Romance Dungeon Sub-Level 2: Flirt or Die Edition!***
> OBJECTIVE: Survive the mimic's advances… or perish from awkwardness.
> You may now select your dialogue options:
1. Compliment its eyes (don't look directly at them).
2. Tell a dad joke.
3. Attempt seductive dance (Warning: -5 Dexterity penalty).
4. Panic and say something stupid (Default).
"I hate everything about this," Bunny said.
"I'm not programmed for romance!" Sir Beef cried. "I'm a man of WAR!"
Freya, ever the protagonist, stepped forward. "I've trained my whole life for this moment."
"You have?"
"No. But I did once beat a dating sim while drunk."
She selected option 2.
"What do you call a mimic in formalwear?" she asked.
The mimic blinked. "...What?"
"A *suitcase!*"
The mimic paused, stared at her for a long moment—and then laughed.
Like, deeply. Like rolling-on-the-floor-cackling.
> CRITICAL SUCCESS!
> The mimic has fallen for your humor!
> You gain +10 Charisma and a box of enchanted breath mints.
"Romance dungeon… *cleared,*" Freya announced, throwing finger guns at the mimic.
It swooned.
"You're the weirdest adventuring party I've ever met," the mimic said. "And I've been furniture for 200 years."
"Do you… wanna join our party?" Greg asked.
"Only if I can be the couch."
"Done."
And with that, the Great Mimic Mix-Up ended—not with a fight, but with flirting, furniture, and far more glitter than any of them were emotionally prepared for.
As they climbed the next staircase, Bunny muttered, "If the next floor is a cooking competition, I swear I'm retiring to that frog swamp."
Greg strummed a new chord—*Anticipation*. "Let's just hope it's not karaoke night."
From above, faint music drifted down.
"…Is that disco?"
Freya grinned. "Let's dance our way into danger."
And so they did.