In the dim glow of his underground workshop, Tarantulas sat hunched over a cluttered table, tools scattered like fallen leaves. The steady tick-tick of a soldering iron and the faint hum of his half-finished holographic projector filled the quiet. Above, faint moonlight filtered through cracks in the cemetery soil.

He glanced toward the entrance every few minutes, multi-faceted optics flickering with a hint of… anticipation. It was ridiculous, he told himself—he didn’t wait for anyone. And yet, he kept re-checking the little side table where he’d cleared a spot, just big enough for an owl-sized Terran to perch.

When soft talons clicked against the stone steps, his shoulders relaxed. “You’re here,” he said, voice composed.