The glowing text on her datapad pulsed with venom. *He looks so happy here. He belongs here.* Zorya squeezed the casing until her knuckles went pale. Lev's bare arms and knees gleamed against manicured turf in the photograph, alien against the estate's polished perimeter. It was a claim of ownership, staked in daylight. Zorya’s studio felt suddenly small, suffocating. Mishka, sensing the shift in her mood, rose from his rug, his massive head nudging her hand, a soft rumble emanating from his chest. She stroked his silky fur, finding a fragile anchor in his presence. "She won’t win," Zorya said into the quiet room. She set the datapad face down beside her cooling kiln and cleared a space among the parchment sketches. Winning the Volkov competition was the only counterweight heavy enough to keep them safe. She pulled up the competition's official regulations on her terminal, blue light spilling over the scarred worktable. The usual prerequisites – a detailed concept proposal, portfolio, artist statement – scrolled past. Then, a new section, highlighted in austere crimson text, caught her eye. *Mandatory Material Sourcing and Authentication Protocols.* Zorya leaned closer. The new rules stipulated that all primary materials for submitted works must be sourced from a list of 'pre-approved, ethically certified suppliers' and undergo 'rigorous multi-spectral analysis' to confirm purity and origin. The list, when she clicked it open, was shockingly short, dominated by a handful of mega-corporations known for their exorbitant prices and exclusive contracts. The pricing index made her stomach turn. Buying raw silica and stabilizer fluxes from those conglomerates would drain her account before she could light a burner. It was a transparent, cynical move to price out independent artisans, to ensure only the wealthiest, most established houses could even participate. As she scrolled further, a roster titled 'Patronage and Oversight Board' loaded line by line. Katya Shcherbina's name sat at the head of the panel. Her name, bold and unyielding, sat atop the list, flanked by an official portrait that radiated cool, calculating authority. Katya was listed as an executive panelist, her corporate portrait polished to an icy sheen. “She’s ensuring her victory before anyone even starts,” Zorya muttered, her voice raw. Mishka let out a low growl, his hackles rising slightly, as if he too understood the insidious nature of the attack. Later that evening, the air in Stasya’s garage hung thick with the smell of hydraulic fluid and hot metal. Stasya, wiping black grease from her knuckles with a rag, listened intently as Zorya outlined the updated rules and Katya’s position on the board. “She’s not just playing dirty, Zorya. She’s trying to rewrite the rules of the game to make sure you can’t even step onto the field,” Stasya said, her voice quiet but firm. “You need an edge, something she doesn’t see coming.” “I need to understand *how* she plans to win, Stasya. Not just against me, but against everyone. There are other artists she’s pushing out.” Stasya nodded, her eyes narrowing. “My network. It’s not fancy, but a mechanic hears things. A lot of things. Especially about the people who own the factories, the supply chains. Give me a day. I’ll see what talk I can turn up about our dear Katya.” True to her word, by the next morning, Stasya’s datapad was buzzing. She found Zorya hunched over a new design for the orchid, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Got something,” Stasya said, her tone hushed. “Small things, at first. A few years back, a rival textile magnate had his showroom stock ruined by solvent leaks before the annual Guild exhibition. No paper trail, but the Shcherbina holding group bought out his debts within weeks. Another designer lost an automated loom filing when the city registry locked his account during a routine audit, right before a Voronin subsidiary registered the identical mechanism.” Stasya shook her head. “She builds her empire on the broken pieces of others. She’s a spider, Zorya. Patient. Deadly.” “A spider…” Zorya repeated, her gaze drifting back to her design – the glass orchid. “And I’m a fly caught in her web. I need to see her weave it.” That afternoon, Zorya found herself in the bustling environs of the Solovyov Gallery, a fortress of avant-garde art in Volkovgrad’s elite district. She had tracked Katya Shcherbina's public schedule – a charity luncheon, a patron’s viewing – using publicly available data feeds. Blending into the sophisticated crowd was harder than she anticipated. Her practical, working-class clothes felt out of place amidst the flowing silk and tailored synth-wool of the patrons. Mishka, too large for such an establishment, waited patiently in Stasya’s converted delivery van, parked several blocks away. Zorya picked up the trail of Katya’s retinue, navigating past kinetic brass sculptures and glass cases. She spotted Katya standing beside a canvas of textured crimson, speaking with a heavy-set man whose silver hair was lacquered flat. On his lapel sat an enamel juror's badge: Pyotr Lyovin, from the online roster. She ducked behind a towering installation of polished obsidian, close enough to hear, but obscured by the art and the low hum of conversation. Katya spoke in an easy drawl. “The revised supply criteria ensure baseline quality, Pyotr. Purity. And an appropriate pedigree for the entries. We have standards to maintain.” Her hand subtly slid across the small, polished table between them. A brass-cased memory drive passed between their fingers beneath the rim of the cocktail table. His thick hand closed over it and slid it into his vest. “Standards must be preserved,” Lyovin murmured, settling back into his chair. “The board will uphold the revised vendor registry without debate.” Katya’s smile was chilling. “Excellent. We understand each other.” She glanced around, a fleeting, almost imperceptible movement, her eyes scanning the room, not lingering on any one face. Zorya shrank into the dark angle of the slab, watching the transfer disappear into the juror's pocket. Katya then pushed her chair back, a soft scrape of metal on polished floor. She straightened her dress, a movement of casual grace. Zorya remained rigid against the stone. Katya turned slowly, chin tilted, her focus sweeping across the gallery until her vision struck the mirrored flank of the installation. Katya’s gaze didn’t just pass over the art; it stopped. It locked. Directly on Zorya’s hiding spot. Katya’s expression flattened into amused calculation. Her gaze lingered on Zorya's reflection, unhurried, her lips curving upward at one corner. Then, without breaking eye contact, she turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing precisely on the gallery floor, leaving Zorya exposed. Zorya stayed rooted until Katya's black aeroship ascended past the floor-to-ceiling windows, vanishing into the overcast sky.

A Web of Glass