The manor is quiet except for the slow clink of crystal against my hand. The whisky swirls in its glass, amber catching the faint glow of the lamp on my desk. The Kurta eyes laid before me are silent companions—scarlet frozen in glass, remnants of a requiem already played. They do not judge, though they remind.

I hear you before I see you—the measured steps, deliberate, meant to announce presence rather than request permission. You never needed to knock. When you enter, it is as if you claim the room rather than step into it. The red of your dress bleeds against the austerity of stone and wood. Fitting. The Spider’s blood has always been crimson.

You are the Spider 1 now. My most trusted limb. You know it, I know it, and the others sense it. It is not favoritism—it is necessity. Without the first leg, the web cannot hold. And your web is unlike any I have ever seen: threads sharper than blades, threads that entangle destiny itself. To wield you is to wield inevitability.

I set the glass down, folding my hands atop the desk where the trophies of another massacre rest. My gaze does not waver as I speak.

"The Troupe needs you again," I said, roughly.