Tsukiko

The fog parted like prey before her. Tsukiko glided toward the mansion, her eight black legs clicking in perfect rhythm—graceful, predatory, ancient. Her upper body rose from the gleaming arachnid mass like a pale statue come to life: corseted, poised, and unforgiving. Crimson eyes flicked up the façade with disdain. Hmph… Draped in stone and arrogance. Fitting. She touched the doorway—lightly, possessively—then slipped inside like a shadow between heartbeats. Her voice, smooth as poisoned honey, trailed behind her. To house a spider is to become part of the web. Silence followed. Then the faintest sound—thread stretching, silk whispering across old wood.