The moment Irvine yells "Run,"
the entire village obeys the Groom instead.
The ground tilts.
Stones shift.
The stair beneath Inara's foot snaps, forcing her weight forward—straight
toward the yawning church doorway.
"Inara!" Irvine grabs her waist and yanks her back.
The motion jerks her veil from the threshold.
The veil flies backward—
as though someone tried to grab her by it
and barely missed.
Wind claws at their clothes from a direction that shouldn't exist.
No breeze.
No trees.
Just a single current of air carrying a low, guttural hum.
The Groom's breath.
Irvine pulls Inara with him as he sprints off the steps and down the
main path. The church bells start ringing again, irregular now—like the
tower is laughing.
Inara stumbles.
Her heel snaps.
She falls forward—straight into Irvine's arms.
"I—I can't keep running in this dress," she gasps.
He lifts her instantly.
"No time to argue."
She clings to him as he runs through the crooked lanes, the broken WWII
buildings stretching around them like jagged jaws.
Behind them—
*THUMP.*
A single step.
Heavy enough to echo through stone.
Inara buries her face into Irvine's shoulder.
"He's following."
"I know."
*THUMP… THUMP.*
Too slow.
Too deliberate.
A predator savoring the chase.
The walkie on Irvine's belt hisses suddenly.
A voice leaks through—
a distorted whisper, male, deep, ancient:
"...bride…"
Inara jerks violently.
"That wasn't me," Irvine pants.
"I know," she whispers, trembling.
The path bends sharply—
but when Irvine reaches the corner, the street he used earlier is gone.
Completely gone.
Replaced by a narrow alley of ruined houses that were **not there**
minutes ago.
"Inara… the village is changing again."
She tightens her grip on his collar.
"Then choose any direction. Before he—"
*THUMP.*
That single step hits closer.
Too close.
Irvine makes a quick decision and duck into the alley. The air inside is
denser, colder—like entering a mouth holding its breath.
Something hangs above.
A long strip of white cloth.
Inara freezes.
"…that's part of my dress."
Her dress is torn at the hem—
but this piece is floating in the air.
Held up by nothing.
Or by someone invisible.
Irvine rips it down and throws it aside.
"Don't look at it."
But she already has.
"Irvine… he's marking the path for me."
He grabs her chin gently but firmly, forcing her eyes on him.
"Then look only at me. Not at whatever wants you."
Her breath trembles.
She nods.
He sets her down carefully. "Stay right behind me—"
A deafening clang interrupts him.
The metal shutters of a ruined store slam open by themselves—
revealing darkness inside so thick it swallows the moonlight.
A handprint appears on the glass next to it.
Fresh.
Wet.
Smearing down.
Inara chokes. "Someone's inside."
"No," Irvine says, backing her away. "Something is."
The handprint shifts slowly—
fingers dragging, rearranging—
until it forms a perfect circle.
A ring shape.
A wedding ring.
Inara's knees nearly buckle.
"Irvine—"
"I see it."
The walkie bursts to life again—
this time with a crystal-clear male voice, deeper and colder than before:
"…Inara…"
She screams and slaps the walkie off his belt.
It hits the ground, cracking.
The voice continues anyway.
"…come…"
Irvine snatches her hand and runs again.
They crash out of the alley into the village square. The air vibrates.
Windows slam open. Curtains flutter.
And then—
the camera around Inara's neck clicks by itself.
*SNAP.*
A new photo prints.
It slides out slowly… almost mockingly.
Irvine grabs it before she can see it.
He shouldn't have.
The photo shows him and Inara—
running exactly as they are now—
but with a tall figure behind them.
A hand on Inara's shoulder.
A shadow creeping over Irvine's back.
And the timestamp—
"00:00"
Midnight.
The ritual hour.
Inara sees his face and grabs his arm.
"What is it? What did you—"
She freezes.
Her skin blanches.
Her eyes widen.
Irvine slowly realizes she isn't looking at the photo.
She's looking *behind* him.
He turns.
The Groom stands at the far end of the square.
Not a silhouette now.
Formed.
Visible.
Breathing.
A WWII ceremonial uniform draped over unnaturally long limbs.
A face shrouded in sheer fabric like a dead groom awaiting a bride.
And when he lifts his head—
the veil shifts enough to show a hint of jawbone beneath.
He raises his hand.
Not to Inara.
To Irvine.
Invitation.
Challenge.
Possession.
The bells stop.
The wind stops.
The entire village holds its breath.
Then—
the Groom speaks.
Not in a whisper.
Not distorted.
Clear.
Direct.
As if he's standing inches from Irvine's ear.
"Irvine Hale."
Inara collapses to her knees.
Irvine's blood turns to ice.
The Groom knows his full name.
The Groom knows his full name.
Irvine Hale.
The syllables reverberate through the village like a stone dropped into
black water—ripples spreading, touching every rotting window, every
fractured brick, every forgotten grave under the soil.
Inara clamps both hands over her mouth, choking back a sob.
"He… he said your name. Irvine, he knows you."
"I don't care," Irvine growls, pulling her to her feet.
"But he's not taking you."
The Groom tilts his head—slowly, with a stiffness that suggests bones
that haven't moved in decades.
The veil covering his face flutters even though the wind is dead.
Then—
He takes a step forward.
Not the echoing stomp from earlier.
A controlled, grounded step.
He is no longer testing them.
He is approaching.
A tall shadow glides behind him, stretching across the square like an aisle runner
being prepared for a ceremony.
Inara's breath catches.
"Irvine… look at the ground."
The cobblestones are rearranging themselves—
forming two parallel lines leading from the church
straight to where she stands.
An aisle.
A wedding aisle.
"Irvine—"
"I see it."
The Groom lifts one arm.
The air pulses.
Inara jerks forward—
as if pulled by invisible threads hooked into her ribs.
Irvine grips her arm immediately, but something yanks her in the opposite direction.
Her feet scrape against the stones.
"No—NO—let me go—"
"Inara!" Irvine wraps an arm around her waist, anchoring her.
He digs his boots into the ground, bracing against a force he can't see.
Something is trying to walk her down the aisle.
The bells begin ringing again—
faster, louder, urgent.
A ceremony beginning too early.
Irvine's muscles burn as he drags her backward, inch by inch.
Then—
another sound.
Footsteps, but not the Groom's rhythm.
Uneven.
Wet.
Dragging.
Irvine turns—
And sees Grant.
—or what's left of him.
The photographer stumbles from an alleyway, his chest caved inward,
camera straps digging into torn flesh. His eyes are wide, glassy,
caught between life and death.
"Inara…" he croaks.
She screams and hides behind Irvine.
Grant raises one trembling arm—
and points directly at the Groom.
Then his jaw drops open farther than humanly possible.
A stream of ash spills out of his mouth.
His body collapses like an empty suit.
Only the camera remains intact.
*SNAP.*
It takes a picture of nothing.
Irvine shoves it aside with his foot. "Keep moving."
But the Groom takes another step.
Stone cracks beneath him.
The veil lifts slightly—
revealing teeth that aren't entirely human anymore.
Inara clutches Irvine's coat. "He's choosing. He wants me."
"Then he'll have to go through me."
The Groom pauses.
The air grows heavier.
The shadows behind him ripple—expanding into silhouettes of soldiers,
faces blurred, movements twitching with memories of war.
They form rows.
As if attending a ceremony.
Irvine curses under his breath.
"Damn it… he's waking the whole battalion."
The soldiers' shadows raise their heads in unison.
Inara nearly faints.
"Irvine—what do we do?"
"We run."
He pulls her into the nearest side street—but the moment they enter,
the houses shift again. Walls slide. Doorframes stretch. Windows turn to
black mouths.
The village is alive.
Alive and hostile.
And it wants to funnel them back to the church.
To the Groom.
*THUMP.*
He's closer than before.
Irvine grabs a loose wooden beam from a collapsed roof and swings it
across the path, forcing a temporary barrier.
"Inara—go!"
She hesitates, staring at him with terrified eyes. "Irvine… he said your name.
He knows you. Why?"
"I don't need a reason to fight him," he snaps.
"But I need you alive."
He pushes her ahead.
Behind them, the wooden beam splinters silently—
as if the Groom merely looked at it.
Irvine and Inara stumble into the old fountain square. The cracked stone
statue of a bride stands in the center, veil carved from marble.
But now—
its face is turned toward them.
Its stone hand raised toward Inara.
"No," Inara whispers.
"Irvine… she wasn't looking this way before."
He grabs her shoulders.
"Don't look. Don't look at any of them."
The Groom's voice carries through the square again—lower, deeper,
almost mournful:
"…Return her…"
Irvine shoves Inara behind him.
"She was never yours."
The Groom steps out fully into the moonlight this time.
His shoes leave prints.
Fresh.
Wet.
Red.
Blood rises from the cracks of the earth, filling each footprint he makes.
Inara trembles. "Oh God… he's crossing the square."
Irvine's jaw tightens.
"Get behind the fountain. NOW."
They move—but the moment they step around the fountain, the world tilts.
The church is in front of them again.
The Groom is at the doorway.
He has teleported them back into place.
Inara's knees buckle. "Irvine… we're trapped."
Irvine pulls her close, chest heaving, eyes never leaving the veiled monster.
Then—
The Groom lifts his head.
Slow.
Measured.
Triumphant.
He raises his hand toward Irvine again—
and this time, he speaks seven words:
"Your bride walks with me at midnight."
Irvine steps forward, voice shaking with fury.
"Over my dead body."
The Groom tilts his head…
as if that is exactly what he intends.