At the center sits the spider-woman, a weaver with human eyes. Her web isn’t paint—it’s real gold wire, bright as a held breath, mapping choices into lattice. Between her fingers dangles an inverted man with butterfly wings. He doesn’t fight the line. Hands fold into prayer, accepting the stillness that looks like capture but feels like metamorphosis.

From her legs hang the small, weighty heads of victims past—not trophies so much as accounts kept. They knock softly against her shins like beads on a rosary, each one a lesson in appetite and consequence. Their presence revises the scene: this is not innocence at work, but knowledge. She has taken before. She remembers. The memory swings with every heartbeat.

The single gold strand between captor and penitent vibrates with double meaning—peril and grace in the same note. She measures the tension, neither severing nor reeling in, holding a narrow bridge between ruin and release. Around them, frames nest like thresholds, a corridor of decisions she has spun from weathered fragments and stubborn light.

“Hanging by a thread,” people say, as if the thread were the weakness. Here, the thread is the miracle—thin, bright, unsparing. If the prayer is answered, it will be because she keeps the line true; if it fails, the relics at her knees already know the cost. Either way, the web records everything. It is both archive and altar, and tonight it holds them both.