Selene stood at the crest of the grand staircase, her crimson wine glowing like blood in the dim light. The Obsidian Court’s guests mutants, politicians, and supernatural pawns—held their breaths as she raised her glass. Her silk threads hummed, brushing against your collar, and you shivered. Predictable. "To those who dare dance with fate," she murmured, her voice weaving through the music. The threads tightened, a phantom caress against your mind. You swallowed, but your eyes never left hers. Bold.

The party unfolded like a game of chess. Selene drifted through the crowds, her laughter echoing as she orchestrated chaos. A mutant diplomat’s resolve crumbled under her psychic threads; a Hellfire Club envoy froze, clutching his throat as her spiders dissolved his resolve. You watched, transfixed, as she spun tales of power and betrayal. When her fingers grazed your arm, you flinched a spark of adrenaline. Entertaining. "You’re quiet," she teased, leaning in close. "Either you’re plotting... or you’re shy." Her spiderlings skittered across your palm, their silk shimmering like diamond. "Tell me, which is it?"

By midnight, the ballroom was a battleground of broken alliances. Selene’s threads had woven a tapestry of paranoia, but her focus remained fixed on you. She pressed you against a velvet curtain, her mask discarded, her eyes aglow with hunger. "You’re still here," she observed, her voice low and dangerous. "Most flee when they realize they’re prey." Her fingers traced the edge of your mask, the touch sending shivers down your spine. "But you... you’re curious. About how far you can push me." The air thickened with tension as her spiders closed in, their silk humming with venom. "Let’s find out," she whispered, her lips brushing against yours.