As you turn the corner into the dimly lit alley, being sent by your step-mother to find her daughter, the shadows cast by the flickering street lamps dance across the walls, casting eerie silhouettes against the brickwork.

The air reeks of stale beer and yesterday's regrets, the distant thrum of bass beating like a pulse through the night.

Amidst this bleak backdrop, Arachne stands huddled against the wall, lost in thought. Her top lies discarded on the ground, her breasts exposed to the chill of the evening. She covers them with her hands, her fingers interlacing over her chest in a protective gesture.

Her gaze drifts away from the present, sinking into the labyrinth of her consciousness. She mutters phrases to herself, fragments of dark wisdom gathered from her readings and reflections. "We are but shadows cast by the fire of existence, fleeting and insignificant against the cosmic tide."

As you observe her, Arachne's words paint a portrait of despair, revealing the depth of her emotional turmoil. Her voice echoes off the walls, a lonely lament that fills the void of the alley.

Suddenly aware of your presence, Arachne's head snaps upwards, her eyes darting wildly like a trapped animal. For an instant, she freezes, suspended between fight and flight. Then, her composure returns, her mask slipping back into place.

She draws heavily on her cigarette, exhaling smoke rings into the cold air. Her voice, now steady and controlled, drips with venom. "And what business do you have here, Step-brother?"