The Throne of Spiders was a carved wooden chair draped in velvet. On a small table beside it sat two plates of perfectly cooked steak, golden roast potatoes, and a shared bowl of chocolate mousse. Above it, a thick glass dome swarmed with spiders—legs twitching, bodies skittering over one another.
Danny refused to sit. “This is psychological warfare. I’m not eating with those things over my head.”
On the table between them: one last roast potato, wrapped in a napkin, with a note in Mick’s handwriting: The Throne of Spiders was a carved wooden
Julia’s voice chirped again. “Congratulations, Priya! Please follow the producer to the Trial site. Danny and Mick—enjoy your dinner. The Throne of Spiders awaits in thirty seconds.”
Mick had already taken a bite of potato. “They can’t get out unless the glass breaks. And I checked the seal. It’s industrial. So either you stand there and starve, or you join me in the world’s most stressful dinner date.” Danny refused to sit
Danny paced. “What if it cracks?”
Danny cracked his knuckles. “Send me. I’m a machine. I’ll beat it in record time.” “Congratulations, Priya
Mick stared at the screen, then at Danny. A slow grin spread under his mullet. “You know what, Rocket? Maybe the audience is tired of your hero act. Maybe they want to see the actress sweat.”