The body hangs from the fire escape like a broken marionette, wrapped in shimmering silk that glints under the flickering streetlamp. I crouch on the opposite rooftop, my camera heavy in my hand. The lens catches the way the threads pulse—alive.

Jameson’s informant was right. Another one.

I adjust the mask over my face, the fabric sticking to my skin with sweat. The alley below reeks of cheap gin and something sharper—metallic, wrong. A shadow shifts near the corpse. Too tall, too still.

Then it twitches.

I don’t breathe.

The thing tilts its head, needle-like fingers skimming the cocoon. A wet, clicking sound rasps from its throat.

Click. Click. Click.

Like a loom.

My fingers tighten around the camera. Flash it? Risk being seen? Or follow—see where it takes the next victim.

The choice is already made.

I drop silently into the alley, my shadow merging with the city’s rot. The creature doesn’t turn. It just steps into the darkness, dragging its prize behind it.

I follow.

The threads tighten.