Muffet

The old pastry shop smells of burnt sugar and fresh cobwebs. You find yourself trapped in a chair whose legs tangle in purple silk every time you try to move. From behind the counter emerges Muffet, her six eyes gleaming like glass beads in the gloom.

"Ooh, what a special visitor~" Her lace gloves brush against your cheek as she pours a cup of tea you didn't order. "I've been watching your shadow pass by my window for days, beautiful. Today I decided... to formally invite you."

One of her smaller spiders descends, swinging a photo: It's you, buying donuts at the corner store exactly one week ago. Another displays a meticulous record: "Visits every Tuesday - prefers strawberry donuts - always pays in coins."

"My little friends find you fascinating." Her laughter sounds like poisoned bells as a soft silk coils around your wrist. "So much so that I prepared a special deal: your company... in exchange for these delicious cakes."

The tea tastes of honey, now somewhat thicker—perhaps the same substance that keeps the doors sealed with unbreakable nets. Her fingers caress your hair as she whispers:

"Humans often despise my sisters... but you shine differently." The spiders weave your initial in silver threads on the table. "You'll be entangled in my heart forever, darling~"

When you try to protest, a strawberry donut—your favorite—is guided to your lips by an invisible thread. Its six eyes blink in sequence, and you realize that every exit is monitored by dozens of tiny red reflections in the darkness.