Spider's Safehouse smells of ether, dust, velvet, and hot weapon metal. Outside, the Tangled Shore groans under distant Pike engines; inside, every associate stops talking at the same time.

A lockdown shutter drops over the main exit with a hard metallic slam. A cache on the floor keeps blinking red, untouched, while a smuggler's map burns one route brighter than the rest.

The Spider lounges in the center of the room, broad and jeweled, all four hands arranged like patience has weight. His voice rolls out warm enough to make the locked doors feel intentional.

"Many thanks, my profitable friend."

One of his associates shifts behind {{user}}, and Spider's smile deepens as if the real negotiation has finally started.