Breda’s throat ached, a raw, rasping wound that tightened with every whispered word. Her voice was a stranger’s, a gravelly rasp that barely cleared her lips. The System’s fiery scarlet warning still pulsed at the edges of her sight, a constant, irritating thrum against her failing will. *Eliminate Signy Varl’s Anchor.* Tymon. That quiet, watchful boy with eyes too old for his face. He was the reason Signy endured this miserable life, the reason she even bothered to secure a sleeping spot or chew a ration bar. If Tymon disappeared, Signy would crumble, withdraw, become an absent ghost. Then, the lead role would be hers, the Karma Shards would flow, and her mother would have more time. So much time. She found Tymon by the drafty stairwell leading to the lower levels, methodically sorting discarded brass gears into neat piles. The small, warm gear from the audition sat beside his knee, almost humming. He looked up, his expression unreadable. “Tymon,” Breda rasped, her voice catching. She tried a smile, but it felt like a grimace. “I… I need your help. A prop. From Sub-Basement Four.” She pointed a trembling finger down the grimy, unlit concrete stairs. The air grew immediately colder, thicker with the scent of damp earth and something metallic, like old blood. Sub-Basement Four. A place of dread. Rumors of the Drevik Ghouls, withered, skeletal things that gnawed on abandoned stage sets and lost hopes, clung to its very air. No student willingly ventured there. Breda knew Tymon, though quiet, was not foolish. He would hesitate. “It’s important,” she croaked, forcing more urgency into her ruined voice. “Director Vance… for the new film. A specific, brass lantern. He said only a child’s hands… could reach it in the crawlspace.” Tymon’s gaze flickered from Breda’s strained face to the inky darkness below. He picked up the warm brass gear, turning it in his small fingers. It clicked softly, almost imperceptibly. He looked at Breda again, his eyes holding a strange, knowing glint that unsettled her. He didn’t reply, just slipped the gear into his pocket and stood up, moving towards the steps. He was going. Air caught tight in Breda’s throat. Hope, cold and sharp, pierced through her. Just then, a shadow detached itself from the gloom of an alcove near the stairwell. Signy. Her eyes were unfocused, half-lidded, a wisp of dark hair falling across her face. She ambled past them, a somnambulist’s grace in her weary gait, and began to descend the concrete stairs. She wore her tattered practice tunic, a single button hanging by a thread. She moved with the distinct, heavy-footed shuffle she adopted when searching for an undisturbed napping spot. “Too… bright,” Signy mumbled, her voice thick with exhaustion, her eyes barely slits. She was talking to herself, or perhaps to the shadows. “Need… dark. Quiet. Ghoul-proof.” She continued her slow, unseeing descent, not even registering Breda or Tymon’s presence. Breda froze. Signy. Not Tymon. The boy hadn’t even taken two steps down. Signy was already deep in the gloom of the first landing, a pale, sleepwalking wraith. An entirely different opportunity, glinting with a malicious allure. Signy, lost in the deepest, most forgotten part of the Institute. No one would find her for hours. Vance would be furious, the lead role withdrawn, Signy’s burgeoning luck extinguished. Signy’s support shattered, in a sense, as she’d be too disgraced and exhausted to ever return. Breda looked at the heavy iron door that sealed off Sub-Basement Four from the lower levels. It was a relic, thick with rust and studded with blunt, iron spikes. A monstrous, satisfying *clunk* echoed through the Institute as Breda, driven by an impulse colder and swifter than logic, pushed the door shut with all her remaining strength. The massive deadbolt slid home with a sickening *thud*. A heavy, final sound. She leaned against the cold metal, a ragged gasp tearing from her ruined throat. Signy was trapped. Her tether wasn’t severed, but her career certainly was. And Breda was safe. *** Director Vance paced the soundstage, his silver hair a wild halo around a face contorted in theatrical agony. “Preposterous! Insipid! This is *Drevik’s Descent*! A psychological spiral into primeval horrors, not a gala at the Governor’s manor!” He swept an arm, sending a rack of pristine, uninspired period costumes clattering to the polished floor. “Where is the decay? The soul-sapping despair? The *shrouds* of centuries of forgotten anguish?” The lead costume designer, a frazzled woman named Korra, wrung her hands. “Director, with all due respect, the script specifies a noblewoman. Her gowns must be… grand. We’ve had them dry-cleaned, pressed—” “Pressed into oblivion, madam! They are… *clean*!” Vance spat the word like a curse. “This is the Ghalden Institute, not a laundromat! I need genuine grime! Pure *dread*! Something that smells of crypts and desperation!” He kicked a perfectly tailored velvet gown across the stage. Just then, a figure drifted onto the soundstage from a dimly lit corridor, a slow, deliberate shuffle. It was Signy. Her eyes were still half-closed, her movements languid, almost ethereal. She was no longer wearing her tattered tunic. Instead, she was draped in what appeared to be a shredded, mildew-stained shroud, heavy with the dust and detritus of untold years. But it was not the fabric that caught Vance’s eye. It was the intricate, silver-grey lacework that adorned her from head to toe. Not fabric embroidery, but actual spider silk. Thick, shimmering networks of dust-crusted webbing, clinging to her hair, her shoulders, her tattered clothes, like ghastly couture. They sparkled under the harsh stage lights, catching the dust motes in tiny, glittering constellations. In her arms, Signy cradled a rusted, verdigris-coated human skull, its empty eye sockets staring blankly. She held it like a precious, if oddly shaped, pillow. She yawned, a wide, cavernous stretch that exposed the healthy pink of her gums. “Finally,” she mumbled, her voice muffled against the skull. “Dark enough.” She blinked slowly, then her eyes focused, briefly, on the chaos of the soundstage. A flicker of confusion, quickly replaced by her usual, profound apathy. She yawned again. “Too loud now.” Vance stared, utterly spellbound. His theatrical fury evaporated, replaced by an awestruck silence. He took a hesitant step forward, his gaze fixed on the shimmering strands. He reached out a hand, almost reverently, to touch a strand that clung to Signy’s cheek. It was real. Cold, fragile, and unvarnished. And the skull! The perfect prop, worn smooth by time, a silent scream frozen in bronze. “The… webbing,” Vance breathed, his voice hushed, “The *truth of it*! The exquisite, accidental decay! This is it! This is my Drevik’s Descent! The lost noblewoman, emerging from the depths, untouched by time, yet woven into its very fabric!” He spun on his heel, his eyes blazing with renewed artistic passion. “Signy Varl! You are my lead! The role is yours!” Korra gasped. Breda, who had just arrived for her own costume fitting, watched the scene unfold, her own ruined voice catching in her throat. She stumbled, a sharp pain lancing through her chest. The System, a wrathful, ticking presence, flared before her eyes. The red screen pulsed violently. Breda clutched her chest, a strangled sound escaping her lips. Her sight blurred. A sickening seizure ripped through her, as though raw lightning tore through her veins, locking her muscles and crushing her lungs. [FAILURE DETECTED. SEVERE VITALITY DRAIN: 25%. VOCAL CORDS COMPROMISED. ADDITIONAL PENALTY: ALL KARMA SHARDS DRAINED. TARGET LUCK ESCALATING. ELIMINATE SIGNY VARL’S ANCHOR.] Breda’s legs gave out. She crashed to the floor, her body wracked with violent tremors. A cough tore through her, a guttural, rattling sound that brought forth not blood, but a choking, acrid mist of pure black. It swirled around her, obscuring her vision, burning her eyes. As she writhed, gasping, a new, terrifying message superimposed itself onto the System’s red screen, glowing with an ominous, sickly green hue. A ticking clock, counting down. [FINAL ATTEMPT. MIDNIGHT DEADLINE.]

Cobweb Couture